


Traveling Circus

by Bladespeaker



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Arc 1: Primary Character: Myrie Ward, Arc 2: Primary Character: Selana Firestone, Arc 3: Primary Character: Llumin, Arc 4: IN PROGRESS, Asura (Guild Wars), Charr (Guild Wars), GW2 Base Personal Story, GW2 Human Noble Personal Storyline, GW2 Human Street Rat Personal Storyline, Knights of Gryphon (Guild Wars 2 Original Guild), Sylvari (Guild Wars), The Battle of Claw Island
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2020-03-09 16:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 109
Words: 168,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18921094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bladespeaker/pseuds/Bladespeaker
Summary: Follow the stories of the impulsive and oddly-named Myrie Ward and her companions as they travel throughout Tyria, leaving the human street rat wondering how on earth she manages to get caught up in a series of events that she never would have imagined back in Divinity's Reach.Throughout her travels, she meets up with such memorable characters as the highborn elementalist Selana Firestone, sylvari lush Sylfia Wyldcaller, and the impossibly well-styled Logan Thackeray as well as many others.  Keep your baubles close and your wits closer, for Tyria is a land as dangerous as it is beautiful, and the polished streets of the human capital of Divinity's Reach are as dangerous as the Maguuman jungles to the east.  To let your guard down too long may tempt fate to see just how well you can survive...





	1. Arc 1, Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: the non-NPC characters portrayed here are my own, with possible guest appearances by those of other guild members. You know who you are.

   The crush of the crowd was stifling. Not that it was a torture to the mind, per se, but it  _was_  warm. Shoulders of the nobility, try though they might, could not help but brush with those of the common-born, street rats. And although they may have attempted to protect their valuables, it was quite easy for a skilled thief to relieve the upper crust of their trinkets and baubles.    
  Such was the instance in which  Myrie  Ward, notorious filcher with a strange code of honor and a taste for adventure, could be found. Slipping as easily into the crowd as a fish into water, the lithe young woman so much as flexed her fingers and found within them rich strands of pearls, glittering bands of gold, and earrings of topaz. She quietly stepped to the side, pausing to brush a straggling lock of chocolate-brown hair away from her green eyes, and inspected her goods. A smile spread across her slightly grimy face.  

  
  “Jackpot,” she breathed, inserting her fingers into her pouch and retrieving a heavy, obviously-valuable necklace. She could tell that it was only half of a whole pendant. “What  _are_ you, my rare bird?” Myrie mused, pursing her lips. The silver jewelry did not respond, but its owner did. 

“Thief!” a feminine voice shrieked, and underneath it, Myrie could hear the mutterings of arcana. Her eyes widened, and she groaned. 

  “Great. A highborn magician. That’s just what I needed.” 

The “highborn magician” had spotted her. Red hair blazing against the flawless ivory of her skin, she stormed forward with deadly purpose.

  “I swear, if you don’t give that back,” she began, a flicker of flame sparking off of her fingers, “you will deal with the all the wrath that House Firestone can offer!”   
Yet the thief was gone, leaving an extremely angry elementalist behind. 

 

Myrie watched from the rooftops to see where she would go. Instead of melding back into the crowd or calling the Seraph guards as could have been expected, the noblewoman simply sat on the dirty steps in a state of shock. She lightly fingered her collarbone as if fondling the ghost of her necklace. The thief’s resolve to sell the item dissolved as she noticed small, dark tear stains appearing on the dusty cobblestones. 

“Why?” Myrie heard her whisper softly, her voice quivering.   For one terrified moment, she thought the elementalist was addressing her. Yet as she continued, she realized that she was merely speaking to herself.  “It was all I had of them. And now,” Lady Firestone’s voice took on a deadly edge, and she swept out her hand in a flaming arc, which then clutched a molten weapon, “it has been stolen. Think, Selana, think!”  

Myrie cautiously watched as the other woman set down the lava weapon and pulled out a letter. Attached to it was a mirror copy of the very necklace which was so heavily weighing in her hands. Curiosity over-rode Myrie’s sense of self-preservation, and she scooted closer to the edge of the roof to get a better look at the piece of parchment. As she settled into a more comfortable position, there was a dangerous sound of shifting shingles. She glanced down at the roof.  

“Blast.” 


	2. Arc 1, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend, a new rival, a debt paid unwillingly and with the promises of a future grudge.

Selana  Firestone had not been expecting the thief to drop out of the air to return her necklace, but something surprisingly similar happened. Her ears perked up as she heard a mutter, followed  shortly by a grating sound, a shower of grit, and one tumbling thief. The other woman landed with a heavy thud and a wet crack next to her.

“Ah!” she gasped, clutching her side. “My rib!”

Briefly forgetting her letter, the  elementalist’s  first instinct was to grab her necklace and torch the criminal. Intending to carry out her plan, she stopped upon realizing that the thief was favoring her side. Sighing,  Selana  Firestone stifled her temper.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked politely.

  “ Of course  I am, you  bleedin ’ highborn-ack!”

  “Hush.” The woman stood, and  Myrie  was left wondering if she had giant or other blood in her veins that wasn’t human. She was taller than many other nobles, and at first glance one may have mistaken her for one of those delicate ladies. Yet  Myrie  had sensed something stronger in her- something wilder. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but she was silent as she realized that Lady Firestone had called over a Seraph.

  “Sir, if you would please carry this young lady to the priestesses of  Dwayna , I would greatly appreciate it. She has fallen in  is in need of  medical attention.”

_ No! _ Myrie  thought, every nerve screaming at her to run. She struggled to her feet and was about to do just that, but the ever-helpful guard had called over one of his fellow soldiers.

  “Hold on, lass,” he remarked cheerily, hoisting her onto a pallet.

  “Let go,  you  clod! I can- urgh!-  make it myself!”

  “Now, now, don’t get your knickers in a bind. We’ll see you to the priestesses, and they’ll fix you up nicely.”

  Myrie  turned a beseeching eye on  Selana . Please no, she mouthed. The ivory noble shook her head, her ice-blue gaze distant.

  “You need help, and whether or not to accept it is no longer your decision.”

  “What do you mean?” the thief asked, struggling to keep conscious. There must have been a spell making her this tired, and she cursed herself for not noticing it before now.

  “ Myrie  Ward,” a stern-faced Seraph began, “you are hereby under arrest for thievery and other acts of mischief against the Seraph and other members of Divinity’s Reach.”

  Her eyes widened. “You turned me in,” she whispered angrily.

  “Like I said, it’s no longer your decision.”  Selana  walked over to the groggy waif after picking up her necklace. She slipped something into  Myrie’s  hands. “But I will help you again later.”

Snorting with derision,  Myrie  managed to glance down at the mystery item. It was a guild emblem, emblazoned with a rampant gryphon on a purple and gold background.  _ Knights of Gryphon? Well, this could be interesting. _  With that, she lost consciousness.

  She awoke in a cell that was curiously reminiscent of her home in the streets. Her cellmate even looked like her old friend, Quinn. He grinned at her and waved.

  “Hey, good to see you’re up,  Myrie ! How’d you land in here?” It  _ was _  him!

In response, he received a shoe to the head.

  “Ow! Why-?”

  “What did I tell you?” she snapped. “Didn’t I say to not rat out on Two-Blade Pete? Didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but-”

  “But _nothing_ , Quinn! That’s why you’re in here, isn’t it? I can see it on your face.” She sighed, wincing at her cracked rib. His eyes narrowed in concern.

  “What happened to you?”

  Myrie  slid her gaze across to him and frowned. “One of these days, either he or I am going to kill you.”

  “ Myrie , I thought we were friends.”

  “You are incredibly annoying.”

  “ _ You _  are dodging my question.”

  The two cellmates glowered sullenly at each other before the thief suddenly burst out laughing. Quinn looked at her askance.

  “Ok, now I’m  _ really _  concerned. Did you hit your head or drink some crazy  sylvari  brew?”

  “No,” she replied,  hiccuping . “I fell off of a roof and cracked my rib.”

  “Who were you trying to outrun?”

  “She was trying to outrun me.” A shadow filled the doorway of the cell.

  “Firestone!”  Myrie  spat. “What do you want now?”

The  elementalist  waved her hand dismissively. “I have decided to let you go free. I have paid your bail.”

A Seraph walked in to remove the handcuffs from  Myrie’s  hands only to find them already off, discarded on the floor. She spread her palms apologetically.

  “It  kinda  comes naturally. See a lock, pick a lock. It’s good therapy.”

  “Just don’t practice your ‘therapy’ outside of the law,” the guard muttered. “Like the lady said, you’re free to go.”

  Myrie  stood, stretched, and beckoned to Quinn. “Come on, you dolt. We’re free.”

  “Actually,”  Selana  replied, “he’s not.  _ You _  are, but his bail’s still up.”

  “What? No way.” She plunked back down onto the hard cot. “Either he’s out, or we’re both in.”

  “You-”

  “Aren’t the one to decide? Yeah, right. It’s all for one out on the streets, not keep to yourself in your pretty little castles,  _ Selana _ .” She leaned back and smirked. The noblewoman pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “Fine,” she huffed, turning to the guard. “Five silver for his bail, yes? Here.”

  The guard took the silver and removed the cuffs from Quinn. He smiled charmingly at the elementalist , who merely inclined her head in recognition.

  “Well, thanks for that, Ms. Firestone,” he said, bowing. “Perhaps later we could chat over a mug of ale, or-”

  “Come on, Quinn,”  Myrie  sighed, rolling her eyes and pulling her friend out the door. He turned to her with hurt eyes. “Out of your league,” she hissed in his ear. “Besides, we’ve got a meeting with Two-Blade Pete.”

  He blanched. “I think I’d rather stay with that nice guard in the comfy cell, if it’s all the same to you.”


	3. Arc 1, Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrie is reminded of her name's beginning, insults the nobility, and causes chaos for some mutual enemies.

  Two-Blade Pete was not a good person to be around. His beady eyes were always glaring out at the world, and a puckered white scar ran down his temple to his jaw. The man’s face looked as though he had been rammed into a wall repeatedly, resulting in a flattened nose and forehead. His permanent scowl only deepened upon seeing Myrie Ward and Quinn.

 “So,” he sneered, “the great and mighty Myrie Ward loses her loot again, hm? Seems like your name still isn’t a bringer of good fortune.”

  “Shut it,” growled the thief. Pete, however, had a personality that matched his unfortunate exterior, and he did not drop the subject.

 “How did it go again? Your father comes back from the Dragonbrand after duty only to find that his household has gone broke and that the Queen won’t pay for his service. All he has is his wife and his little waif of a child, still unnamed.”

  “Pete,” Quinn said warningly, jerking his head towards the brunette whose hands had started to slink towards her daggers, “you might want to stop…”

  “So he enters his empty shack in the streets, babbling, ’Where’s my reward? The Queen promised a reward!’ The only consolation he has comes from his wife. ‘Oh, here’s your reward,’ she says.” Pete prodded Myrie in the shoulder. Quinn stepped slightly to the side at the low, almost-inaudible hiss of steel sliding from her oiled leather sheaths.

  “And that’s what he decides to name it before he finally loses his marbles. ‘Myrie Ward.’”

Quinn saw her shoulders twitch, fingers sliding around the hilts of her blades. Before she could strike, though, or warn Myrie to stop, a voice, thick with rage and power, interrupted him.

  “Enough!” All three of them whipped around to see the form of Selana Firestone, illuminated with magic. “You are the basest of the base! Begone before I raze you from this plane and into the Mists!” There was a rumble as the ground before Two-Blade Pete erupted in a gout of flame, sending him scurrying away in understandable wide-eyed terror. Myrie and Quinn were rooted to the spot. They watched warily as the redhead’s aura faded.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered softly. “I cannot abide watching the strong tear apart the weak.”

Myrie recovered quickly. “It’s nothing you can change,” she said sharply. “Did the Queen apologize when my father went mad?”  She slumped against a wall, tension slowly leaching from her body as she closed the clasps on her daggers. “Pete won’t forget this,” she said, turning to the noble. “Now he’ll consider you an enemy as well.”

To her surprise, the elementalist threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, will he now? I’d like to see him try to take me on. The Knights are full of many mighty members.”

At this precise moment, a well-dressed noble puffed up. “S-Selana,” he wheezed, “I heard that you got back, and,” he paused, running a hand through his chestnut locks, “well, I wanted to throw a party for you.”

Myrie looked in wonder at the elementalist. “And is this one of your Knights of Gryphon?” she asked politely. “He doesn’t seem too mighty to me.”

  “I beg your pardon, miss,” the other noble said, obviously miffed, “but I am the great Lord Faren, doer of great deeds, singer of songs, and charmer of ladies. I am a deceptively skilled swordsmaster- do not let these fine features fool you!”

Selana had kept her mouth shut, watching with quiet amusement as Faren continued to elaborate on his prowess and legendary deeds. In the middle of recounting one tale where he supposedly had routed a drake broodmother to save a priestess, she calmly spoke.

  “Faren?” she interrupted.

  “What is it _now_ , O Mighty Hero of Shaemoor?” he asked, peeved at his perceived loss of attention.

  “You have a spider on your shoulder.”

  “Nonsense! No spider would dare-Yiii!” He danced around frantically. “Get it off! Get it off!” he yelped.

  “Hold still,” huffed Selana. She had to enforce this with a spell that encapsulated Faren’s feet in solid earth, and then she raised one slender finger and sent the arachnid flying with a mighty flick.

  “Oh, yes,” Myrie said behind her hand, turning to Quinn, “powerful lot, these nobles.”

He grinned. “Whatever will they do should there be an invasion of gigantic spiders?”

  “Oh, don’t speak like that. They might hear you.” she snickered. Meanwhile, Selana had assured Faren repeatedly that there were no more arachnids on him, and if he refused to drop the subject, she just may be forced to boil his new leather jerkin. He became remarkably silent. The elementalist sniffed the air. Her eyes narrowed. “Do I smell… roast duck?”

Faren perked up. “And brandy! Your servants were quite helpful in setting the banquet up. Everyone’s waiting for you, the guest of honor!”

  “ _My_ servants? Faren, did you help yourself to my larder again?”

The young man smiled slyly. “Perhaps.” He offered his arm to her.

“Such a gentleman,” Selana said, rolling her eyes and slipping her arm through his. Myrie marveled at the difference she had undergone while with her friend. She seemed calm and relaxed- quite different from the raging incarnation she had seen on the streets. As she was leaving, Lady Firestone turned and shouted back, “The Knights have many members of varied backgrounds. We could always use you.”

“Maybe later,” called Myrie. “For now,” she continued, turning to Quinn, “we have a mission from Pete.”

 

 

The thief and her companion stole quietly across the cobblestones.

  “What’s up now?” whispered Quinn, stepping out of the way of a pool of light.

  “You remember Riot Alice?” Myrie carefully hopped over a suspiciously-murky puddle.

  “Yeah, bit of a loony if I recall. She was a good member of our gang, though.”

  “Mm-hm. And do you remember what you had been asked to do on your previous assignment while I was off traveling?”

  “How did you-?”

  Myrie gave him a glance. “Come on, Quinn. I may no longer be the leader of the pack, but I always keep tabs on my crew.”

  “Fair enough,” he sighed. His eyes narrowed as he peered into the shadows, where a group of ruffians were joking among themselves.

  “Widowmakers,” he growled.

  “Yeah, as I was saying, your previous mission from Pete? It was to keep Alice safe from them, wasn’t it?”

  His head whipped around. “I tried, okay? There are just some times when a guy’s gotta know when he’s beat.”

  Myrie grimaced. “Well, Pete says we either get Alice back, or he gets your heart on a stick.”

  They stilled their chatter as they walked up to the entrance of the Widowmaker’s hideout. Myrie coolly walked up and knocked on the door. Quinn reached to stop her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  “What in the name of all that’s gold and shiny are you doing?! You can’t just walk up there and expect to be allowed in!”  
She raised a finger to her lips and glared at him as she shook free. “Trust me, Widowmakers only have two kinds of people at their doors – drunks and angry, stupid people. How hard could this be?”

  A bleary eye met her clear one.

  “Whuz… _hic_ … what’s the…”

  The thief gave her companion a triumphant look. “Password?”

  “Nerp, that’s not it….”

  Myrie pondered for a moment. The guard was obviously inebriated. Perhaps this could be used to her advantage.

  “This stein requires a beer.”

  A muffled scuffle was heard behind the door.

 “Incorrect,” a different voice sneered. “Shove off!” The eyehole snapped violently shut.

  Myrie stepped back off the steps and placed her hands on her hips, puffing out her cheeks in frustration. Quinn gave her a smirk.

  “Told you.”

  She waved the comment off. “Come on,” she said, glancing back towards the bridge where they had first spotted the rival gang. “We might not be able to guess the password, but we can get it a different way.”

  “And how do you intend on doing that?”

  “The old-fashioned way, of course- we rough up some Widowmakers.”

  Quinn grinned. “I like the way you think.”

 

  A few moments later, they returned to the door, leaving behind no fewer than ten Widowmakers with lumps on their heads and fear in their hearts. Myrie jauntily strode up to the door and knocked again. Bleary-eye answered.

  “What’s the password?” he asked. His voice was still slurred.

  Clearing her throat, the thief replied, “Salma’s bloomers.”

  “Correct.” the thug grinned blearily, opening the door. His look of satisfaction was quickly replaced with one of confusion as a crimson stain blossomed on the front of his shirt. As he toppled to the ground, his compatriots were quick to stand in his place.

  Quinn cut another Widowmaker down with a swift blow. Myrie dispatched two more, her daggers flashing in the dim lantern-light. Only two thugs remained. Myrie smacked her blade in her hand menacingly.

  “You saw what we did back there,” she said, “so I’m giving you a choice. Either you stay here and fight Quinn and I, or you make a break for it and tell us where Riot Alice is.”

  For a moment, the Widowmakers were silent, looking at each other nervously. Finally, one of them bleated out, “She’s on the upper floor!” and leaped out the window. His companion followed shortly.

 

  It was shocking that they had managed to wage their scuffle without hearing Riot Alice’s shouts along with the noises of battle. As she caught sight of them, she merely paused in her long rant against the world - specifically Two-Blade Pete - and snapped, “Get over here, you oafs! Whaddaya waiting for, an invitation?”

  “Don’t get your bloomers in a bind,” Quinn teased, breaking the locks.

  The woman stood, short-cropped orange hair clashing violently with her colorful outfit. “You,” she began, nostrils flared, “are the _reason_ I got nabbed! And you would have thought that Pete would have sent some decent help to rescue me, after all we’ve been through.”

  At that moment, Two-Blade Pete walked in. The flamboyant woman turned her full fury on him.

  “Why’d you leave me here?! I thought you needed me for the apothecary job!”

  “Shut up!” he hissed. Surprisingly, she did, glaring daggers at him and muttering curses under her breath. Myrie absently noted that she would have made an excellent necromancer.

  “All right, Pete,” she said, interrupting the glare match between the thug and his goon. “You’ve got Alice, so leave Quinn alone.”

  “Not so fast, Myrie,” the man sneered. “Quinn’s no longer under your protection.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but he Quinn interrupted.

  “Sorry, old friend, but what he says is true. I’ve gotta do what the boss says, and the boss isn’t you anymore.”

  Myrie sighed. “All right. Be careful, Quinn. I won’t always be around to protect you.” Pete, satisfied, crooked his finger, and the three left. In their place, a Seraph came.


	4. Arc 1, Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrie has a run-in with the law and runs into a potential new ally.

Myrie  had never trusted the Seraph or any other high-ranking officials. As a street rat, the only things she had learned about them was to stay as far from their weaponry as possible and equally as close to their moneybags. 

_   Greedy, over-indulged, self-serving, _ Myrie  thought, panic starting to cloud her mind as the officer started walking towards her,  _ and they _  always  _ try catching you red-handed when you do only what you have to do to survive. They don’t care for the people-they care for their wallets! _

  “ Myrie  Ward?” the Seraph asked.

  “Yes?” The thief’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I haven’t broken any laws that I’m aware of-unless you count helping a friend lawbreaking.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” she said quickly. “But Captain Logan Thackeray has requested your presence.”

  “‘Requested?’”  Myrie  asked. 

  “Requested,” the officer confirmed. “He’ll be sorely disappointed if you don’t show up though.”

  “But I won’t be arrested?”

The Seraph gave her a look. “No. Why would you? Your record’s been cleared.”

Myrie’s  warning sense, tired of all the tension placed on it, finally snapped. “Okay, where are the others ? ” she  snapped , drawing her dagger and looking around skittishly. “This is  some kind of stick-up , isn’t it? Well, you won’t take me alive!”

  “ Myrie !”     


She whipped around. “Quinn? I thought you had left. Did they arrest you?”

He laughed. “No, they didn’t! In fact, I went into the bar-”

  “Please tell me that this isn’t the beginning of a bad joke.”

  “No, but it is good to see you’re calming down. I digress; Thackeray’s got a proposition for us.”

  “Well, what is it?”

Quinn smiled broadly. “I’ll let him tell you.”

  Myrie’s  sense of unease, though dampened by the presence of her friend, did not disappear upon entering the vast hall where the Seraph routinely passed. Hollowed out in the center of one hall was a circular chamber which served as the headquarters for the Seraph leader, Logan Thackeray. It  was located in  the building next to the queen’s throne room- a convenience for him not simply due to the ability to respond quickly should there be any danger, but also due to the fact that he was frequently concerned for her safety. 

_ Unnecessarily so, _ Myrie  thought, her danger sense zinging as the rows of armor-bearing guards tromped by. The Seraph who had escorted her to the captain’s office went up to the mahogany desk, saluted, and informed Logan that  Myrie  had arrived safely and soundly, as ordered. The  man glanced up from his paperwork and thanked her, after which the Seraph saluted again, turned, and stood at attention by the door.

_ No way out, _  the thief realized with a shudder. If she had any previous thought about escaping this hornet’s nest, they were crushed under the steel boots of the soldiers. She gulped and cleared her throat. “ Myrie  Ward reporting, sir.”

He looked up at her and smiled;  Myrie’s  thoughts instantly flashed to a pearl armband she had stolen three days prior.     
  “I thought you’d never come. You have quite the reputation, Ms. Ward.” he said. His voice was warm, yet cautious. “Word on the street says that you can rob a man blind without even looking, and the victim will be none the wiser.”

  “That’s how we get it done on the streets,” she replied stiffly. “You don’t get hired for a job, you resort to other tactics to bring home the bacon.”

The captain still was smiling.  Myrie  wondered if he was even listening. “Hello,” she said, waving her hands, “I just practically admitted that I routinely steal for a living. You going to arrest me yet, bub?”

  “Hardly,” he said, his grin growing wider. “You seem like the exact person I would need for a job.”

  “Ooh, a job with the law enforcement! What joy! I’ve  _ always _  wanted to work with the Seraph!” the thief replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What does the long arm of the law need an inch like me for? Mucking out stalls?”

  “Not at all,” he replied. The smile vanished. “What we have here is a manner of great importance. It concerns a foe we have long thought dead.”

  “ So  it’s a missing hit,” she surmised. “Who did you fail to put the kibosh on this time?”

The brown-haired man winced, reached into a drawer on his desk, and pulled out a roll of parchment. Unrolling it, he showed it to  Myrie . She picked it up and scanned it. Depicted on it was a bandit cruelly sneering at the outside world. The description below did not make her feel any more comfortable than the snarling face.

  “Wanted for various acts of Thievery, Mayhem, and Murder: Ryken the Cruel. This thug has been convicted numerous times as a known member of the White Mantle-”

Myrie  snorted and tossed the paper back at Logan. “You know, you’re funny. The White Mantle died out long ago,  Brownielocks . I’ll admit you had me going for a while- that poster looks awfully convincing- but White Mantle? That’s pushing it a bit too far.  So  have fun chasing down your imaginary cultist.” She turned around to leave-

-and promptly ran into a  mesmer .

  “ Oof !” he gasped, stumbling back.  Myrie  leaped away, dagger already in hand.

  “Assassin!” she yelped.

  “I  _ beg _  your pardon?” he asked, brushing off his robes, “I believe you were the one who ran into me.”

  “Hardly,”  Myrie  snorted, twirling the blade in her hand. She glanced at him. Tall, with red hair, a trim goatee, and blue eyes, he seemed to be anything but a mercenary. Her eyes caught the details and fine gemstones embedded into his robes.

  “Oh, no,” she moaned, casting her eyes heavenward, “not another royal ambassador fop.”

He laughed warmly. “Now that’s the first accurate thing I’ve heard you say. My name is Gryphon  Radwing .” He bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ward.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “How do you know my name? Are  you  some kind of bounty hunter?”

  “On the contrary,  Myrie , I am a mere noble.” He held up a finger, stilling her tongue before she could let out an angry barrage. “But I was not born one. In fact, I was actually a commoner like you before I received my lordship.”

  “Yeah, right. How does that effect your knowledge of my name?”

  “I was told about you,” he replied, “by a friend of mine. I believe you have met her.”

She snorted. “Where on earth do you think I would meet one of your upper- crusters ? Oh, I know, I met her at a ball, right? Because you know we street rats have  _ plenty _  of time for  those sort of things . Not a care in the world, living fine and fancy free…”

  “I insinuated no such thing,” he said flatly. “And in fact, she told me that she met you in a jailhouse after you tried to steal her heirloom. It’s the only thing she has left of her parents, so it’s understandable that she reacted the way she did.”

Myrie’s  mind went blank.

  “I know the meaning of hard work,” the  mesmer  continued. “You don’t get a lordship from Her Majesty Herself by just sitting around eating crumpets. This world only changes when we do something about it.”

  “That,”  Myrie  said, “was surprisingly inspirational. Now if you’ll excuse me,” she said, stepping around him and beckoning to Quinn, “my friend and I have business to take care of in  Shaemoor .”

  “What business?” the  mesmer  asked. “Relieving bandits of their ill-gotten spoils? Slaying more centaurs? Any adventurer can do that.  Myrie , the reason  Selana  informed me about you and your friend is that she saw potential in you. Very few have impressed her so, so I have good reason to believe that you have the ability to be something more than just an average sneak thief.”

She grimaced and opened her mouth to fire back another acidic volley, but Quinn nudged her. 

  “The guy has a point,  Myrie .” he whispered. “I don’t know about you, but that Firestone girl looks like the kind who sees things others don’t. I’m pretty sure she’s not the kind to fool around with labeling someone as a diamond in the rough.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re smitten with her.”

Quinn gave a low chuckle. “ Myrie , I may on occasion go for a pretty face, but believe me when I say that ‘intimidatingly beautiful’ is not on my list of features to admire in a gal.”

Myrie  gave him an incredulous look. “You find her intimidating?”

He shuddered. “Thorn's ghost, yes. She’s a little too perfect to be normal.”

Gryphon coughed discreetly. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Ward, I did come here for an appointment with Sir Thackeray.” Having said this, he stepped up to the desk. To her surprise, what was almost the same conversation she had had mere moments ago occurred with Logan and the  mesmer . The difference was in the reaction. Whereas she had reacted with incredulity, Gryphon responded with fury.

 

  “That dog’s still alive?” he asked, and out of the corner of her eye,  Myrie  could see him hunched over the “Wanted” paper.

  “It would appear so,” Thackeray replied. “As you may be able to tell, though, not all,” he gave a pointed look to  Myrie , “believe it.”

Gryphon whirled on her, eyes a strange combination of desperate and angry. “ Myrie  Ward,  listen to me. There is very little that scares me, but these guys  are able to  do that. Do you really believe the Mantle are dead?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Now they’re just a tale used to keep spoiled kids in line.”

_   “Wrong.” _  he said coldly. “The only thing dead about them  are  their methods. They’ve adapted, and I have reason to believe they have a mole in the highest ranks of the Reach.”

_   “Now _  you’re sounding like one of us! We street rats have always thought the higher-ups have had it in for  Kryta .”

  “It is also possible that there’s one on the streets,” he said. “The White Mantle aren’t your average group of extremists; they plan on subjugating all of  Tyria  to the worship of their gods, the Unseen.”

Myrie  thought the  mesmer  very intelligent, but equally confused. “Are you sure  you’re  all right? Are you feeling a bit light headed?”

The doors to the chamber swung wide open, allowing a panting squire to enter. “Sir, some of the guard have detained a member of the Mantle.” he gasped. Thackeray grimaced, grabbed his sword, and motioned for the others to follow.

 

Tanned, with a brawny physique and a bald head,  Myrie  would have expected him to be tending to a field rather than be a member of a supposedly-dead cult. But one look in his eyes convinced her otherwise- they burned with a fanaticism that deeply disturbed her.

  “You really think you can stop us,” he sneered. “I can see it in your faces. How  _ cute. _  Your forefathers thought they could stop the Mantle as well, but how quick they are to forget that it does not end simply because we no longer parade the streets.”

  “Silence!” a guard nearby barked. “The captain has not given you permission to speak.”

Thackeray waved a hand and glared at the cultist, who stared back defiantly. “You admit, then, that you are a part of the White Mantle, a known terrorist organization?”

The criminal threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, your ignorance is simply appalling. You consider us anarchists? Bringers of terror and murder? No. This,” he paused, nostrils flaring, “this is freedom for which we fight. We fight for the freedom from those you call ‘ gods’ . Lyssa,  Balthazzar \- where have they gone? They are like children, going to find new playthings, new devotees, as soon as they get bored with those they have. We Mantle have found the true gods- the Unseen.”

As he said this, the temperature in the room plummeted. Gryphon’s face paled.

  “You  _ have _  heard of them!” the man crowed. His gaze flitted to  Myrie . “Well, some of you have. Child,” he purred, causing her to bristle at the comment, “what would you say if I told you that there are things you cannot see all around you? People, if you will, that are not ghosts, who possess incredible powers? What if I told you,” he continued, his smile growing wider, “that there is an Unseen in this very room? I can sense them, you know. They have stayed hidden, but this one says that they are coming back, and very soon…”

Myrie’s  eyes widened. 

  “Don’t believe him,” muttered the captain. “They say this sort of thing all the time-”

  “I can see it,” Quinn’s voice came, quiet and numb. Everyone but the prisoner flinched in surprise. His hand clenched around his pistol, and his voice became stronger. “And I can tell you one thing: that creature is no god.”

  “Quinn! What are you-?”  Myrie  yelped. She was cut off, however, by the sudden click and a resounding bang as the gun went off in the enclosed space. There was rustling sound like that of a cloth falling to the floor and a feral hiss.

  “What have you done to him?” the man wailed.

Before the disbelieving gazes of all in the room, a golden figure crumpled to the ground after materializing from thin air. Seven black tendrils protruded from its back on either side like frayed ribbons, and its three-toed, eagle-clawed feet scrabbled feebly at the ground as it fell.   Its face was covered by a horned mask.   
  Though no eyes were visible in the holes, she sensed its cold hatred flowing over her. Fevered whispers of a strange language filled her mind like a strange magic, and horror overtook her thoughts as scenes of carnage flashed through her mind's eye. It felt as though her bones were being plunged into flaming oil only to be broken under the feet of mountains.  

_   Agony, _  a word echoed through her mind, sibilant and hateful.  _ Your very body turns against you. Your mind is now your foe. Give in to the pain. Sleep forever. The  _ _ Mursaat _ _  will avenge their carnage from centuries past upon the present generation, and  _ _ Tyria _ _  will be ours to command once more. _


	5. Arc 1, Chapter 5

 

“Breathe.”

_Pulse like a dead man's drumbeat... too bright... Everything's too bright..._

  “Come on, Myrie, you’re made of tougher stuff than that. You’ve gotta breathe!”

_Ragged breath drawing past cracked lips. Mind like a firebrand._

  “MYRIE!”

 

Myrie awoke in the chamber of a temple of Dwayna, which she had seen after vanquishing a Tamini elemental. The last time she was there, her ailment was only physical. Now her pain was in both her mind and body, and every bone, every sinew, every neuron screamed in pure agony. Her mind froze at the word. Agony. What had happened in the prison, with that madman of a White Mantle and that insane mesmer? She groaned and struggled to sit up. A firm yet gentle hand pressed on her shoulder.

  “Easy, Myrie. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “Quinn?” She tried sitting up again, and a different hand pushed down.

  “Who…?” she croaked. Her voice sounded as though it hadn’t been used in weeks. She attempted to crack her eyes open. They felt as though an ogre had grabbed both orbs and was trying to crush them.

  “It’s Gryphon. You know,” a wry chuckle came through, “the crazy mesmer who believes in fairy tales.”

Myrie tried laughing, but it came out as a cough. “Well, I must be going crazy, too- I’m pretty convinced that those old stories are real now.” She slumped back down beneath the covers. Her forehead knotted in concentration. “What… what happened back there?”

Quinn stood and went over to the doorway. The early morning sunlight glinted off the silver handles of one of the pistols he had hooked into his belt. He gave a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“When that cultist had said that he could sense the Unseen, my reaction was at first like yours, Myrie. No way could something like that exist, I thought. Then I blinked, and I saw a shadow. With each passing second, it became more and more defined. At first, I thought the old man there-” he turned slightly and jabbed a thumb in Gryphon’s direction- “was casting some sort of illusion on me. But illusions don’t usually give you the sense of being something’s prey, and soon enough, I could hear it breathing.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He continued shakily.   “Myrie, have you ever felt like someone’s walked over your grave, or as though you were standing on the edge of a vortex about to be inhaled? That’s what the Unseen’s gaze felt like when it realized I had shot it. It spoke something at a speed so great only a whisper of its intent could be felt, but I knew that something was going to happen. I just didn’t know what I was expecting when it unleashed its power- a fireball or something, I guess. But when I saw you go down, it shocked me. I mean, imagine it from my point of view. Your best friend, who’s stuck by your side even when you’re being a complete moron, suddenly goes from hale and hearty to grey and with a look in her eyes that says the stars themselves are dying. I didn’t know what was going on. That’s when Gryphon finally gives us all a look and says he can sense some sort of illusion crushing down on you. Captain Thackeray actually played a good hand for once and shielded you while Gryphon warded the attack away.”

  “So everyone else did something heroic while you poked the bear?” Myrie smiled and winced at the pain.

Gryphon turned from a poultice which he had been grinding and soaked a cloth in it, which he then applied to her forehead. The cool relief was an instant blessing. A sigh bubbled out of her.

  “While the captain and I were trying to keep you alive, your friend here kept an eye on the Unseen and finished it off. If it weren’t for him, the creature’s continual assault may have worn my mind down into madness. We all owe him our lives.”

 

  “So what now?” Myrie asked after a few hours had passed. During that time, she had mostly slept, and though still sore, she felt as though she could move without tearing something. Quinn had packed up his bag and was preparing to go back to Two-Blade Pete for a job.

  “I’ve already risked my neck by staying this long,” he said grimly. “No doubt Pete’s going to be less than thrilled at my late return.”

  “Aw, I’m sure he’d understand. Surely he’s done something nice for someone he cares for.”

Quinn snorted. “Pete doesn’t even care for his own mother, Grenth rest her soul. He’s still the same old coward as when you left, only now he’s stronger and meaner, as you no doubt noticed.” He shouldered his pack, polished his pistols once more, and headed for the door.

Gryphon looked up from a book and towards him.  “Wait.”

Myrie’s friend paused, looking back at him curiously. “Got something to say, blueblood?”

  “Yes,” the mesmer replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a letter. His blue gaze flitted over it before returning to his speaker. “Be careful. I’ve been in contact with a friend of mine from the Priory, and she says that in the old days, people who were able to see the Mursaat were killed off quickly by the White Mantle. Now that we know there are more of them out there, you have to be extra careful of any knives that might end up in your back.”

  “Gee,” Quinn said with a grin. “You don’t know anything about us, do you? On the streets, you never stop watching.” With that, he turned and walked out the door, whistling before he ducked into the shadows and was off.

 

Myrie’s gaze followed him until his silhouette was no longer visible. After being sure that he was gone, she reached under her pillow and pulled out a scroll of fine vellum. The mesmer noticed her expression form into a grimace.

  “So, what’s the news on the street?” he asked, wondering why she was so displeased.

  “It’s not street news,” she replied. “Firestone’s invited me to a ball at some Minister Someone-Or-Other’s mansion. If I had a thing to wear, or perhaps a respectable escort, I’d be a little-” she paused, glowering at the mesmer’s small smile- “just a little excited. After all,” she sighed, picking off a corner of the paper and rolling it into a ball before tossing the scrap onto the ground, “it’s not every day a street rat’s invited to a ball.”

  “Well, that is something,” he said, pursing his lips and peering at the letter. “Minister Wi, hm? Rumor has it that he’s under investigation for some shady business. Bandits or something. It’s understandable that Selana would ask for you to come. Should things sour, it’s good to have an extra blade or two to defend oneself. When’s the party?”

Myrie tossed the letter onto the floor and stood, flexing her fingers. She frowned at their stiffness and turned towards her pack, stuffing some miscellaneous items and some more of the mesmer’s potion inside.

  “Two weeks from now.” She picked up her daggers and shoved them into her belt. “Why?”

Gryphon smiled. “Because that should be enough time for you to get fitted for a dress. After all,” he said, eyes twinkling at her slowly-dawning realization, “it’s not every day a street rat gets invited to a ball.”


	6. Arc 1, Chapter 6

 

Myrie had never thought that she would see the day when she would be shopping for such a frivolous item as a party dress, and though she was standing in the curtained room of a shop getting measured for one, she still didn’t quite believe it.

“Ouch!” she yelped as a needle dug into her ribcage. “Watch it with those pokers, will you?”

“Forgive me, madam,” the seamstress replied, pulling another pin out of her mouth and inserting it into the cloth measuring tape, “but you are a tad … twitchier than most of my customers.”

Myrie snorted softly, earning another needle in the side – “Sorry, miss”- and thought of what her old gang would say if they saw her then. Pete would never stop laughing, she thought, pursing her lips.

The seamstress wiped a pudgy hand on her sweating brow and stepped back.  “All right, we have your measurements done, Ms. Ward. Now, if you would like, we could pick a design for you from our most popular styles and fit it to your size. At the current moment, we have a dress that replicates the very one Her Majesty wore for her coronation ceremony. If you would prefer something a tad more exotic, we have one modeled after some sylvari clothing…”

“Thank you,” Myrie said, smiling as she took the numbered piece of paper from the older woman, “but I believe I shall go elsewhere for my design.”

 

After resuming her normal attire, she walked out of the shop. Gryphon had been waiting at the town square. Seeing her return with the paper- but no dress- in her hands, he asked, “No luck finding a dress you liked?”

“They were okay,” Myrie replied, stuffing the measurements into her pocket, “but I’d rather wear something with a bit less frill and a bit more… you know,” she said, flustered, “grit. I don’t want to go into a fancy ball looking like a poofy little bunch of silk. Do you know of anyplace I could go to find a design that I would like?”

Gryphon shrugged. “I’m sorry to say that being a mesmer does not necessarily make one a mind reader. I don’t know your personal tastes, so the only thing I can recommend is drawing inspiration from what you normally would wear. See if you can incorporate that into something you’d like.”

“Wait a minute,” Myrie said, arching an eyebrow suspiciously. “This sounds strongly like you’re insinuating that I design a dress.”

Gryphon rolled his eyes heavenward. “Well, if you can’t find any designs in the shops that you like and you still are going to the ball, the only other solution is to try designing your own. It’s not unheard of, you know. Besides,” he added, smiling slightly as he reached an open hand towards her, “it’d give you something better to do than snatching my valuables when I’m not looking.”

“I have no idea what you’re-”

“You are currently holding my ring.”

Myrie looked down with some shock into her clenched fist. Surely enough, a shimmering obsidian ring glittered up at her from its depths. Her face reddened. “I’m so sorry,” she stammered. “I had no clue that I had done that. Sometimes it’s just … automatic. I do it to relieve stress- like lockpicking. It just gives me something to do.”

“I understand,” the mesmer said, taking back his jewelry, “and this will give you something to do, too. As a bonus,” he continued, “it’ll also keep you on the right side of the law.”

Myrie puffed out her cheeks and crossed her arms. “Fine,” she said, gritting her teeth. “But there’s someone I want to see first.”

 

 

  Gryphon lagged behind as the lithe thief wound her way through the back streets and across narrow alleys. She effortlessly flowed from street to street, all the while casting cautious glances behind her to make sure that she wasn’t being followed by any hostile forces. Even though the area through which she was running wasn’t wealthy to begin with, the living conditions only seemed to continue to deteriorate as she went on. Barely-clothed waifs scattered quickly at the sound of her approach and peered out from behind the rotting boards of their family hovels. Myrie cast a pitying glance towards the frightened orbs and continued doggedly on towards a goal Gryphon only could guess. Who could possibly live in this run-down, broken street that she would want to see so badly? The citizens strayed fairly clear of him in part due to his impressive appearance and his sharp sword, which he kept barely sheathed yet at the ready should someone attempt to attack him. Finally, the young woman stopped, breathing heavily. She was trembling, and though her trek had been quite exerting, Gryphon felt as though it was not the reason for her shivers. A whisper of mental anguish reached his questing mind- was Myrie afraid of whatever lurked inside the shack by which she was so tensely poised? As if steeling herself, Myrie stood up straighter, ran a shaking hand through her limp brown locks, and inhaled deeply. She then squared her shoulders and rapped lightly on the doorframe. A low moan reached the ears of those outside.

“Go away! We have no means of providing for any guests,” a woman’s quavering voice came from behind the dilapidated door, coming clearly through the thin wood.

“I do not wish to burden you with another mouth to feed.” Myrie replied, vainly attempting to still her voice. “I merely wish to see you.”

“If you have any pity for an old woman and her mad husband, you would let us be,” the voice retorted. “Perhaps if you have any coin to spare, you would provide us with a meal. That would be a kindness which we would accept.” The man’s moan began to take on words, babbling and strange.

“Dragons! Aye, the crackling began, and it never stopped!” Gryphon’s skin crawled at the anguished sound as it became an insane cackle. “Flesh of crystal! Almost all of them died. But not me! Nay, not I. I survived the Branding. Did the Queen reward me yet? Where’s my reward?”

“Hush, Lemuel,” the woman’s voice was muffled as she spoke to her husband soothingly. “She hasn’t paid you yet. She will, though. She promised she would.” A watery blue eye peered out from the doorframe. “Have you no pity for the mad? Please, maiden, if you would leave us-” Her voice suddenly choked in her throat. “Myrie?”

Myrie smiled slightly, tears in her eyes. “Hello, Mother.”

 

Gryphon waited quietly by the doorframe as the young woman met with her parents. It was easy to tell that the Ward house had once been a wealthy one, judging by the very few items of quality they had kept. Among them were an ornate silver ring, a faded velvet and porcelain doll, and a fine oil painting of Sir and Lady Ward shortly after their wedding.

Gryphon realized with a shock that Myrie’s mother was not as old as he had initially thought; the stress of life had aged her far more quickly than the rate at which it would have normally occurred. She was probably only twenty or so years older than her daughter. Myrie’s father, Lemuel Ward, looked even worse than her mother. Though his features were, for the most part, suited to his estimated age, his wide green eyes were glassy and unfocused, lost in the depths of his madness. It was that single point of insanity in an otherwise sane face that made him so piteous. Gryphon knew that it would take an amazing feat of magic to bring back his lost mind- one that would be well beyond most mesmers’ tasks. He doubted that the Queen herself would be able to heal him in his current state. The pale green orbs suddenly became clear, and for a moment of lucidity, Lemuel looked at his daughter.

“Myrie,” he gasped, smiling, “how are you, my sweet treasure?” He peered around her shoulder, gaze starting to cloud again. “Where’s the Queen? She must be here, right?”

“No, Father,” Myrie said softly, hugging him. “She has not yet come. She is very busy.”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” he said gruffly. He brushed her off brusquely and turned to look out the cracked, spiderwebbed window. “She’s just late, that’s all. She promised me a reward, you know. For my service in the Brand.”

“Yes, Father. I have a small amount of treasure for you and Mother,” she said, pulling out a few silver and uncurling his fingers to place them in his hands. “It’s not much, but I hope it helps.”

The man muttered something unintelligible under his breath and took the coins, retreating to a corner in which a creaky stool was placed.

“You won’t get much out of him.” Myrie’s mother gave a sad smile. “He’s only gotten worse since you left. He constantly babbles about his time in the Dragonbrand and its effects. I only hope,” she said, taking a shuddering breath, “I only hope Her Highness stops taking her sweet time and hurries up with his reward!” Shaking from her sudden outburst, the woman sat down on another stool opposite of the one on which her husband sat. “I keep telling myself that will cure him, but all the same, I know it was the death of his friends that scarred him the most. Only one other has survived the Branding, though she was in the charr lands, far to the east. But I know you didn’t come here to hear about our troubles, dear,” she said, taking Myrie’s hands in hers. “What brings you here to see us?”

 

Myrie smiled shakily. “Well,” she said, inhaling deeply, “I need to have a dress designed. I don’t know anything about fashion or sewing, and I was hoping you would be able to help me.”

“Now, what would my pants-wearing, frills-hating daughter want with a dress?” Lady Ward asked, somewhat shocked by this revelation. Her eyes narrowed mischievously. “Don’t tell me that Quinn boy finally plucked up the courage to-?”

“No! No, oh, Mists, no,” Myrie stammered, face reddening. “It’s nothing like that. We’re just friends, Mother. You see, there’s a ball-”

“So he invited you to a ball? I had no idea he was wealthy! I always thought he was like us.”

“Mother! There is a criminal investigation going on, and I’ve been requested to help. The only way I can do so is if I enter this ball- which Quinn is _not_ hosting- and to do so, I need a dress. But nothing in the shops suits me, so I was hoping you could help me design one.”

The woman sighed and sat back, a smile spreading across her face. “I never thought I would see the day where you would ask for help in designing a dress, love. The last time you wore one, you were still a toddler.” She suddenly stood and walked over to the painting, brushing off some cobwebs. “But since time has passed, you will definitely need help in choosing your own style. I assume you already have the fabrics picked out?”

“Well, actually, I…”

“Hopefully, you won’t choose something too expensive, dear. Funds are tight, and-”

Gryphon cleared his throat politely. “There’s no need to worry about the costs, Lady Ward. I will be paying for your daughter’s dress. After all, as a member of the nobility, it is my duty to provide for those who cannot provide for themselves, and, in addition, this will aid a matter of national security.”

The lady looked at him in shock. “Why would you do this for us? We’re just a poor family of nobodies-”

“That is where you are wrong, madam,” Gryphon said firmly. “In my opinion, there is no such thing as a ‘nobody.’ Everyone has their own abilities, and though some of the bureaucracy would consider the poor to be worthless, there are more honest kind among the poor than in many council seats. Your daughter has an uncanny talent for cutting to the point of what is being said.”

“And, if rumors are to be believed, she’s not too shabby at picking pockets, either.”

 _“Mom!_ ”

“Well, it’s true, is it not? But I digress. When is the ball?”

Myrie told her. Her mother smiled, an old light glinting in her eyes. “It will be a challenge,” she said, “but we Wards have always had a tendency to get out of tough spots.”


	7. Arc 1, Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A "street rat" goes to a ball. Everything goes wrong.

 

“Are you sure I can’t see it?” Quinn asked, casually resting against the doorframe of Myrie’s house and peeking in through a space between the door-frame. It was not the first time he had visited since hearing from the grapevine that the rough-and-tumble Myrie Ward was getting a dress. Normally, he would be disbelieving of such rumors, but his curiosity, combined with the reluctant admittance of its truth by his friend fueled those embers of interest into a full-out blaze.

“Go away, Quinn!” hissed Myrie, green eyes glinting angrily. “You’ve been pestering me about the dress for five days!”

“But _I’m_ not going to some fancy ball, so I won’t see you in it. Would it really be so bad if I just got a glimpse of even a sketch of its design?”

“Yes,” she replied coolly, shutting the door. Quinn sighed and ran a hand through his hair, laughing. It had been that way since they were kids. Whenever Myrie liked something and was afraid of others mocking her for her interest, she would act flustered and angry at anyone who even remotely mentioned it. He turned to walk away, a smile starting to form on his face. Where did she say this ball was going to be? A “Minister Wi’s mansion?” Well, he may not be on the invitation list, but that wasn’t going to stop him from getting in, anyway. Very, very few things stopped him from going through with any plans he thought up, no matter how foolish they were.

 

Time flew by in a blur of sewing, stretching, and pinning. Myrie thought that her dress would never be done in time, and when it was, the first words that came out of her mouth were these:

“I can not believe I helped make this.”

“Oh, Myrie,” her mother laughed, “you’ve picked dozens of pockets, but you were worried about a tiny little needle?”

“It’s not just a ‘little needle’,” Myrie replied stiffly, “it’s a tiny dagger. A little _sword_. One small mistake, and you’ve stabbed yourself.”

“Now, those tiny lacerations will heal perfectly fine.” she tutted. She suddenly spun around and whirled the dress off of the table. A smile – a true, happy smile- broke across her face. “You’ll look lovely in it, Myrie.”

Her daughter cast a suspicious eye at the fabric. “You sure?”

“Remember your schooling. It’s ‘are you sure?’. And yes, Myrie. You’ll look wonderful.”

A sudden knock at the door brought them both rushing to answer it. “I’ll bet it’s that Gryphon fellow,” Lady Ward said, smiling. She had become quick friends with the charismatic mesmer, who enjoyed helping around the house and doing what he could to aid Lemuel’s madness. Though his attempts to remove it had been, as he feared, unsuccessful, it was at least helping the old soldier calm down.  
  True to her mother’s expectations, when Myrie opened the door, Gryphon Radwing stood there, dressed in a sharp white robe with gold and purple trimmings. He looked quite regal, Myrie thought.

“Watch for pickpockets,” she stated, gliding past him and into the waiting carriage.

“Hang on,” he said, laughing at her sudden rush and holding her shoulder. “What’s that you’ve got on?”

“My clothes,” she replied, arching an eyebrow. “What of them?”

“Didn’t I help you buy materials for a dress?”

A flush crept up Myrie’s face. “Well, yes, but-”

“Then why aren’t you wearing it?” he asked, casually smiling. He suspected that he already knew her answer.

“I was afraid Quinn would see it!” she blurted. She then proceeded to bury her face in the material of her dress, which she held bundled in her arms.

“And what’s so bad about that?” her mother’s voice came. An awkward pause filled the seconds, during which Myrie’s face continued to generously spread its redness to the rest of her face and ears.

“Absolutely nothing,” she finally stated gruffly, stomping back into the house. “I’ll change and be right back.”

 

 

Myrie’s eyes widened as the carriage pulled up to Minister Wi’s mansion. She had seen grand estates from a distance, but never before had she seen one up close and personal.

And they’ve even been kind enough to invite me in, she thought, grinning behind her black, emerald-studded fan. How kind of them!

Gryphon Radwing hopped out and walked over to Myrie’s side, opening the door for her with a bow.

“Remember,” he whispered as she stepped out, “be on the lookout for anything unusual. This is an investigation, after all.”

“Got it,” she replied. She attempted (vainly) to remember what little tutoring she had on walking gracefully and instead decided to walk normally. Head up high, shoulders back,she thought, closing her fan and striding forward. As she glided past a richly-ornamented lady, her hand slipped out from behind her back and stealthily pocketed one of the heavy earrings which had adorned her ear. Easy pickings, the thief thought, smiling pleasantly at a nobleman who glanced her way. He looked familiar…

“Surely you recognize me?” he asked, revealing a set of brilliant white teeth. Myrie gave him a blank stare. He threw up his hands in frustration. “Of course. The one person in this whole town who wouldn’t-!”

“Lord Faren,” she stated suddenly, holding up a finger in recollection. “I remember now. You’re Selana’s friend, right?”

“Well,” he said, glancing around skittishly, “yes, but right now she’s rather irritated with me.”

“No,” gasped Myrie, smirking, “the great charmer, Lord Faren, has managed to anger the coolest-headed woman in this entire kingdom?”

“It’s not funny!” he hissed, his pleasant demeanor slipping. He glanced behind him, eyes widening. “Oh, gods,” he murmured softly.  
Myrie followed his gaze, wondering what on Tyria could have elicited such an outburst. 

Lady Firestone had arrived.

 

 

Selana Firestone immediately drew the attention of all in the room. Her steps were firm and even, and in her flaming red hair, the stones of her sapphire headpiece glistened like the depths of scrying pools. She strode in with the cool confidence of a queen, her black, gold-trimmed gown rustling. She inclined her head towards Gryphon. When her searching gaze caught Myrie’s, she immediately turned in her direction.

“Miss Ward,” she stated. “I am delighted to see you here.”

“Selana-” Faren broke in. The elementalist’s gaze barely touched him.

“I do not wish to speak to you at the current moment,” she replied frostily. “Now, if you will excuse me, Lord Faren, I have to speak to Minister Wi.” With that, she spun on her heel and glided towards the other nobleman.

“Ouch,” Myrie chuckled. “What did _you_ do?”

Faren’s jaw shifted angrily. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered. He pointed across the hallway into the garden. “Do you see that lady over there? Could you go ask her to dance with me?”

“Do it yourself!” the thief retorted. “You’ve got legs.”

The lord huffed out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll get you a drink from one of the servants.”

“I’ve already got one,” she said triumphantly, sipping delicately from her goblet. “Didn’t even notice it was missing.”

He growled, grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Please. I just need to have someone dancing with me when she comes back.”

“Is this some sort of crazy ‘friend-wants-to become-something-more-and-girl-turns-him-down’ drama? ‘Cause if it is,” she continued, popping a piece of cheese into her mouth, “I want no part of it.”

“I’ll give you my pocket watch!” he cried, exasperated. Myrie looked at him in astonishment.

“Wow, you really are in trouble.” She took the jewelry. “All right, Doctor Desperate, I’ll go get your date.”

 

As she was returning with the news of Faren’s invitation being accepted, Myrie suddenly was spun around and pulled into the shadows.

“Hey! Get off!” she shouted, a dagger appearing at the throat of her mystery assailant. To her shock, she heard an irritating, familiar laugh answer her.

“Wow,” the man chuckled. “You really did it, didn’t you?”

”Quinn?!” Myrie gasped.

“Yep!” he grinned. “I just had to check and see if the rumors were true.”

Myrie replied by punching him in the face.

“Ouch!” he yelped, rubbing his sore jaw. “Why did-”

“This is an official Seraph investigation,” she hissed. “You know that if you’re caught here, it’s back to the jailhouse for you. And Pete’s definitely not going to keep you in one piece if you keep dashing away from your job!”

“That’s why I’m here,” Quinn replied. He glanced over his shoulder. “Come on, I need to tell you something.”


	8. Arc 1, Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession, a sacrifice, a bloodstained night.

 “Can’t it wait?” Myrie huffed, stomping after him.

“Not unless you want thousands of innocent people to die,” Quinn responded flatly as they trudged into a shaded area of Minister Wi’s expansive garden. He looked over his shoulder briefly before continuing. “Believe me, I’m risking my neck by telling you this.”

“What could possibly be-?”

“Myrie, for once in your life, please just _listen!”_ He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “I’m not kidding when I say that Pete might kill me for this. I can’t do it on my own, and I need your help.”

Briefly stunned by his outburst, Myrie only nodded.  

“Okay. Good. I’ll make this brief. Remember Two-blade Pete’s apothecary job? Turns out that he was doing that for the poison, not just gold.”

Myrie slowly lowered herself onto a stone bench. “I was there. We stopped him.”

“No, we didn’t. Not in time. He managed to get his hands on a lot of the stuff, and it’s pretty potent. At first, I thought it was for some assassinations, maybe a way to flex his muscle against rival gangs. But last night, I overheard him and Riot Alice having a major argument. As it turns out, the poison is supposed to be dumped into the main water lines throughout Divinity’s Reach, and she’s not the only one who’s not okay with this. There are several locations where he plans on spreading it so as to more effectively infect the city. If you can convince Captain Thackeray to spare you some troops, you might be able to take out the poisoners before they can finish their work.”

“But even that might not be enough,” Myrie said slowly.

“I know. Alice and I plan on splitting up and warning the townspeople at the dump sites before Pete arrives. That might give them enough time to spread the word and prevent as much sickness as possible.” He fell into silence, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Myrie,” he finally said, “I’ve noticed that, through all of your years of being a thief and overall professional stand-up woman, you’ve never used a pistol. Why is that?”

The thief blinked, confused at the sudden change of subject.

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

Disturbed somewhat by his tone of voice, she spoke slowly. “My father always used to remark that the very last thing he heard before the Branding occurred was a sound like a gunshot. Ever since then, whenever he hears a pistol or other firearm go off, he goes into a nervous tizzy and attacks anything he sees. Mother is only barely able to calm him down. I just can’t bring myself to use one around him.”

“Hm.” He walked around to an apple tree, pausing to pluck one of its fruits. The movement seemed too slow, too precise to be relaxed.  She saw his hand shake before he masked it by cleaning the fruit on his shirt.  “Well, if you could use one out of his hearing range, would you?”

Confusion and irritation addled her brain. “Yes. But I mean… I would never buy one. I don’t even know how to use one.”

Quinn bit into his apple, smiling slightly. “I’ve got one that I could let you use. It’s a favorite of mine.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. He fell into silence and swallowed as his smile slowly dissolved. He tossed the apple away and walked over to where the other thief sat, lowering himself onto the bench next to her with a sigh.

“Myrie,” he said after a while, “I just wanted to let you know something. I’ve left a present for you under a loose cobblestone seven steps north from the bridge."  He swallowed and half-turned to look at her.  "If I don’t make it…”

“No. You are not just leaving yourself as bait for him. We can do this a different way. We can mobilize the Seraph, we can stop Pete and Doc, just-” Her voice cracked. “Don’t be an idiot, Quinn. You’re not a hero.”  
He sighed and stood, keeping and eye on the garden entrance as he absently fiddled with his empty hands.

“Well, that was about what I expected… Guess this is a bad time to tell you I’ve got something else to say,” he said, glancing towards her with a wry smile. She shot him a glare from her folded arms and stood.

“Seriously, you jerk? Just … shut up,” she huffed. “Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it.” She turned from him and shook her head.

“Myrie, wait.” His voice was pleading, desperate.

“Shut up!” she shouted. She turned and brushed past him, ignoring his attempts to get her attention as she raced back to the party. If she could get back in there, she could simply resume her mission. Surely the conversation with Quinn never happened. She could just ignore it.

“Look out!”

A servant had glanced her way and stuck out his heel with a disgusted sneer. In a moment her vision was filled with the lights from the torches, the stars above, and then darkness.  
  
  
:

Everything was blurry. Her head was being held on someone’s lap. She glanced up to see the face of the one who was holding her. Quinn, she thought. That absolute idiot. Myrie moaned softly, tried to sit up, and gave up when her head sent a blazing spike of pain rocketing through her mind.

“Hey, don’t worry. I’ve got you. Give it a moment.” He looked around, glaring at a passing noble who sniffed at him in disapproval. “You know,” he said, giving a soft laugh as he gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “you’d think I was going to tell you that someone was going to kill the Queen the way you reacted. Who would’a thought?” He shook his head slightly, smiling. “It’s … actually been a while since I’ve thought of you as a friend, Myrie.”

Her throat constricted, eyes brimming with tears. No, she thought. This can't have been some setup, could it?

“The truth is,” he said quietly, “for years, I’ve avoided admitting how I really felt. I suppose I was afraid you would react- well, like this. Myrie,” he smiled, "you're the most stubborn, smart, beautiful gal I’ve ever known. I know I’m not the handsomest or smartest guy around. I don’t have any riches, and I constantly irritate you. But burn me if I ever thought for half a second that I didn’t love you something fierce.”

She closed her eyes, the pain in her head nearly causing her to lose consciousness.  She was barely aware of Quinn speaking, his voice so low and soft she hardly heard it.

  
“I know this is horrible timing. You’ll probably forget this if that goose-egg on your head has anything to say, so let me say it twice in case you don’t remember the first time. I love you, Myrie Ward. But I know this is my duty. I have to make things right.”

 Jerk, she thought. What a time to tell me this. As she closed her eyes to the throbbing of her skull, a gentle warmth pressed to her forehead, and she returned to the blissful embrace of unconsciousness.

 

Myrie awoke groggily to the sound of hurried footsteps rushing in a panic and the sound of frantic screaming. As she looked around with bleary vision, trying to make sense of the chaos swirling around her, the memory of what had happened when she was last conscious flooded her mind with pungent sharpness.

Quinn, she thought, sitting up and running a shaky hand over her face. What in the Mists are you thinking?

“Myrie! Look out!” She turned with dumb confusion towards Gryphon Radwing’s warning.

“What?” she asked distantly. She then squinted towards the party- or where the party had been. The banners which had been so gaily fluttering moments ago were torn down and stained with ominous red splatters. What happened while I was out? Myrie wondered, brow furrowing in dazed confusion. She was suddenly much more thankful for Quinn’s foresight in leaving her by the garden.

“MOVE!”

Her head whipped around. Her eyes widened. “Widowmakers.” She frowned, squinting in annoyance as one of the bandits rushed towards her.  “I can’t believe the discourteous nature of criminals these days,” she muttered blackly, staggering to her feet and giving the charging Widowmaker a deadly glare. “In my day,” she growled, pulling out her dagger, “we didn’t just cause chaos at the party of every highborn who decided to go out and be a hero. Heck,” she continued, sidestepping the criminal, “we rarely even made ourselves known! And look at you,” she said with disgust as he spun back towards her. “You don’t even have the decency to take anyone ransom.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, sister,” came the taunting sneer. “You should’ve stayed on the ground- you’ll be going to Grenth soon enough.”

“I think not,” Myrie replied grimly, swirling around as he ran by again. She finished the motion by imbedding her dagger in his stomach. His hands flew to his gut, and he staggered forward for a few more feet before collapsing on the ground. Myrie walked over to his body with exceeding primness, lifting her skirt distastefully as she stepped over him and retrieved the knife. “Confound it,” she muttered, looking down at the hem. “You got blood on my dress.” She kicked the corpse spitefully, then looked down at herself. At least Quinn got to see it before… She shook her head violently. Quinn wasn’t dead. Not yet.

“Really a shame,” she sighed to herself. “I actually did like this.” With that, she slashed her dagger through the fabric, shortening it to a more freeing length. As she stepped out of the circle of the freed material, a sudden flash lit up the sky, punctuated with gurgling screams and the horrid scent of charred flesh. Selana Firestone, hair slightly disheveled but otherwise still fine, stepped out from a screen of smoke.

“I hate bandits,” she said coolly, brushing off some ash from her sleeve with chilling calmness. She looked up towards Gryphon, eyes steely and determined.

“They’ve taken Faren and some of the others,” she said simply.

“Then what are we waiting for?” he asked. “We’ve got to get him back.”

“No!” Myrie shouted. The two nobles looked at her in disbelief.

“Explain yourself quickly.” Selana said frostily. “With each second wasted, we lose the chance of recovering people alive.”


	9. Arc 1, Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This contains spoilers to the Human Storyline: A Greater Good

 With as much steadiness and clarity as she could manage, Myrie related what Quinn had let her know – though she kept the confession to herself.

“And there’s no way of keeping Pete from dumping the poison?” Gryphon’s face was grim.

Myrie shook her head slowly, wincing at the throbbing pain. “No, not unless we mobilize the Seraph, and even that might not keep him from dumping at least part of it.”

“The Seraph are already marching towards a cave where the bandits are thought to be holding the prisoners. We could try to rally what remaining forces are left, but…” the mesmer trailed off, mouth thinning into a grim expression.

“But you don’t think it will be enough,” she finished.

“It would help, though. But by that time, Quinn may already have reached Pete.”

“He can take him,” Myrie said stoutly. “Quinn may not be a Seraph captain, but he’s quick.”

“And Two-Blade Pete is a cowardly, slimy crook,” Selana said flatly. “Quinn has honor, and that could be his undoing. Even if Riot Alice tries to help him, when Pete finds out that he’s been betrayed, it’s a shallow chance of survival that your friend will have.”

“You don’t know that!” Myrie snapped.

“Regardless,” Gryphon said firmly, “we have two choices: Try rallying the remaining Seraph to stop the bandits from dumping poison into the major waterways, or head off and save Quinn.”

Selana straightened. “We can’t just leave Faren in there. He’ll go insane from the dirt and dust alone.” Despite the tense atmosphere, a small twitch of a smile appeared at the corner of Gryphon’s mouth. “I’m completely serious,” Firestone remarked, arching an eyebrow.

Myrie groaned. Stupid, stupid Quinn, she thought, biting a knuckle in frustration. Why did he have to go and tell me that he loved me right before growing a spine? She paused briefly in her thoughts. He had always had a spine, she realized. Mists, he was even more sensible than she was at times. How many times had Quinn kept her from knifing somebody, or insulting a powerful ally? Even when she had been the leader of her gang, it was Quinn who advised her and helped make important decisions. Maybe she had been just a figurehead, and it was he who had been the leader.

In this instance, she knew what he would do- and what he would say she should do. Sometimes, Quinn, Myrie thought, taking a shuddering breath, I really hate your selflessness.

“Myrie?” Gryphon looked at her in concern. “I hate to break in on your thoughts, but we’re running out of time. What are you going to do?”

The thief was silent for a while.

“Contact Logan Thackeray,” she finally said, voice breaking. “It’s the only chance our city’s got.”

 

Selana had gone ahead with a few Seraph to the bandit hideout, leaving Gryphon and Myrie to contact Captain Thackeray.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” the mesmer said soothingly, casting Myrie a worried glance. Her face was paler than usual, and her knuckles were white against her skin.

“Let’s just make sure this won’t be a fruitless mission,” she said, voice tight with emotion. She strode forward purposefully with a light in her eyes that disturbed her companion. “Where would Brownielocks be hiding today? Maybe he’s by his precious Queen…”

 

Captain Thackeray, contrary to Myrie’s dour opinion, was instead in the street where the chaos had broken out. He had stayed behind with some of his troops and was working on dousing the occasional fire that would break out or helping a mother find her child. When he saw Gryphon Radwing, his face lit up hopefully. The mesmer often was a much-needed voice of reason in situations such as these. Then he saw who was with him, and his rising spirits quickly deflated.

“Captain Thackeray,” Gryphon saluted.

“At ease, friend,” the man replied, casting a wary glance at Myrie. “What brings you here? Have you come to offer aid?”

“No,” Myrie replied, straightening and staring the captain in the eye. “We’ve come to request it. I have an informant in Two-Blade Pete’s gang who recently informed me that he plans on dumping vast amounts of a poison through the main waterways in Divinity’s Reach. He decided to stay behind and confront Pete to try slowing him down, but…” Myrie’s voice cracked, and her throat tightened. Confound it, Myrie, she thought, gritting her teeth as she roughly swiped at her bleary eyes. Don’t cry in front of this fop.

Captain Thackeray’s mouth hardened. “I know Pete. He’s a vicious bully of a brute who won’t hesitate to punish insubordination. Perhaps his arrogance will weaken his sword hand. I wish your friend luck. Now,” he said, drawing his sword, “where are the dropoff points for the poison?”

“You’re going to help?”

“I fight for Kryta to defend its people and its Queen. If this endangers one, it endangers all, and I shall fight against it. Now, the dumping points?”

“They’re in the main wells, but Doc Howler is going to personally lead an escort up Dwayna High Road to dump her batch in there. The Dwayna waterway is the largest supplier- if we take her down, our primary concern will be over. Your troops should be able to take out the other lackeys at their points.”

“Understood.” Logan pulled out a small horn attached to his belt. Blowing on it once, he gave a shout.  
“Troops! New plan- instruct the people how to best finish their tasks and come with me. We’ve got a mission to complete, and the fate of Divinity’s Reach is at stake.”


	10. Arc 1, Chapter 10

 Quinn strode up to the tavern briskly, pausing to pull his collar higher in an attempt to disguise the prickles of unease he felt on the back of his neck and ears. Was he truly right in doing this? He had managed to convince Alice that Pete was a greater evil than the government for the time being, yet the knowledge that he had her as an ally in words was nothing like having an actual blade at his side. At his request, she had gone on to warn some of the street rats in the other areas of Divinity’s Reach, specifically the merchant’s quarter, of the impending attack. The news of poison would spread quickly enough for most of the population to become aware of the danger. The only remaining question, he thought to himself as he opened the door and walked in, was whether or not he could stop Two-Blade Pete.

 

“There.” Myrie pointed across the bridge to the small shrine of the life goddess. In the eerie, flickering lights of the shrine, the bandits who were standing guard looked especially menacing. It was ironic, the thief noted, that bringers of death would be around Dwayna’s shrine.

“Where’s the doctor?” Captain Thackeray’s voice came in a whisper.

Briefly startled from her thoughts of irony and death, Myrie blankly answered, “Who?”

“Doc Howler. Where is she? If we can take her out, the operation should collapse on itself.”

“Give me a moment.” Myrie craned her neck around the square pillar, straining her eyes in the darkness. She cursed her lack of fortune and slumped back onto the cool stone. “I can’t see her.”

“Wait.” Gryphon’s thoughts projected into their minds. “I’ll see if I can find her.”

“If you head out there, you’ll be exposed.”

“Which is why I’ll be sending my consciousness instead. Make sure that nothing happens to me while I’m out.”

Myrie opened her mouth to ask what on earth he meant, but the mesmer, closing his eyes and sitting down with a deep exhalation, did not reply. As he finished sighing, a purple mist trailed from his nose and mouth, briefly flashing before convalescing into his shape. The ghostly image turned and smiled at her.

“Seriously? That is really creepy.”

“Just make sure my body doesn’t move.” With that, the spectral mesmer stalked away from them, becoming invisible to their eyes.

“He’s not dead, is he?” Myrie whispered.

“No. I can still sense him,” replied the captain.

“Has he done this before?”

“Yes. There was a war several years back. He infiltrated the enemy’s tent using this same technique, gathering information that led to our victory. However, as he was regaining his consciousness, his guards were ambushed.”

“Did they-?”

Thackeray shifted uncomfortably. “They knew the risks. But I shouldn’t be talking about this without his permission.”

“Wait, the great Captain Logan Thackeray needs other’s permission to tell their own life story? Man, I must be dreaming.”

With that, Gryphon’s body jerked suddenly, and he snorted loudly as if he was waking from a deep slumber. He rubbed his eyes, purple light fading from them. “Well,” he said, flexing his fingers and frowning, “she is definitely there. And Myrie, she looks as mad as a hatter.”

“What?”

“She’s dangerous.”

“Yes, but… a hatter?”

“There’s a hatter in nobles’ tales who is completely insane. But let’s focus on the mission. Remember, Miss Ward, for each second we waste, Quinn’s chances of survival dwindle.”

 

Quinn peered into the bar’s hazy atmosphere. Two-Blade Pete looked even more terrible than usual. This may have been due to the fact that he was smiling, and Quinn knew that Pete only smiled when something horrid was about to happen. The muscles in his face were contorted in a cruel grin, and his teeth flashed as he laughed with some of his compatriots.

“They won’t even see it coming,” he chuckled darkly, quaffing his ale. “Those richies and snobs have had it too good for too long.”

His bodyguard, Crusher Dan, laughed along with him. “And everyone will be distracted by that so much…” he hiccupped. Obviously he was drunk. “No one will know what the true motive is.”

Pete’s eyes narrowed as he smacked him upside the head. “Watch it, you sodden clot. There are ears everywhere. Whispers agents have been our downfall at least once before.”

“Yeah,” the guard snorted, rubbing his head painfully. “But we offed the last one. No one’s going to rat on us now.”

Pete’s face returned to its usual grimace. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Quinn…” He trailed off as his subject came to their table. Silence suddenly descended on the gathering. After a tense few seconds, Two-Blade Pete kicked a chair out for Quinn.

“Well, speak of the devil! We were just talking about you,” he said, smiling like a shark. “Have a seat.”

 

“So how should we proceed?” Myrie asked. All eyes were turned on Gryphon Radwing. He stroked his red goatee thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said slowly, “we know that Howler’s got some guards positioned directly in front of the shrine. We can see them clearly. However, she and the rest of her crew are just around the shrine’s corner. If we make any noise, or if one of the guards shouts for help, we’re going to have a full-out brawl on our hands.”

“We can take them,” Captain Thackeray replied resolutely, hand on his sword hilt.

“Yes,” Myrie retorted, “but can we do it before Doc Howler finishes dumping her poison?”

There was a restless shifting in the group while the leaders thought about what to do. Myrie bit her lip, frustrated at the progress.

“Screw this,” she growled. “I won’t let Quinn die due to slow decision-making. I’m going in.”

“Myrie-!”

The thief whipped out her daggers, eyes flashing with a deadly haze. “The plan’s been decided. Kill Howler and anyone else who resists arrest. Follow me if you’re with me.”

Gryphon’s stomach plummeted. Though not as emotionally-attuned as a sylvari, he could still sense the waves of anger, grief and fear roiling off of Myrie’s lithe frame. She was reckless and desperate. He stood grimly, hands grasping his jeweled staff.

“Count me in.”

 

Quinn set down his mug slowly. Pete’s eyes bored into him.

“That’s why I don’t want to be part of this any more,” he finished flatly. “When Myrie was the leader, we had a purpose: Rob from the excessively wealthy and give the loot to those who really needed it. But you,” he continued coldly, “have taken her legacy and run it into the ground. We’re not heroes anymore, Pete. We’ve changed into murderers, petty thieves, run-of-the-mill vandals. People who used to look up to us now spit in our faces.” He turned to the bodyguard. “You remember what it was like. What’s your purpose now, Dan?”

“My purpose is to do what’s best for our gang. Myrie’s no longer the leader. I follow Pete now, Quinn. You should, too.”

“Yeah,” Pete sneered. “What’s changed, Quinn? You used to follow orders so well. Why’d you just now decide to get a spine?”

Quinn was silent as he stared into the depths of his mug.

“Oh,” the thug hissed. “I know what it is. You’ve fallen in love with the dirty wench, haven’t you?”

“A dog like you wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.” Quinn replied tonelessly, hand straying to his pistol. Crusher Dan reached down and clamped down before he could reach the weapon.

“Now, now,” Pete said, black eyes glittering unpleasantly, “no need for violence, Quinn. We’re just talking. So. How long have you loved her? Did you even tell her before you came? Perhaps you gave her a letter. Oh, wouldn’t that be just like you. Always the coward, Quinn. Maybe someday, there’ll be someone with more of a spine who will make her forget about you. She’ll move on, never casting a glance back, becoming one of those high-and-mighty prim ladies..”

Quinn roared and shook off the bodyguard’s grasp, launching himself at Pete and landing a punch on his nose. As he reeled back with a sickening crack, Quinn whipped out his other pistol and pointed it at Pete. “She’s better than what you think, Pete, and believe me, she’s onto your plan.”

“‘Onto our pl…’-What do you mean?” he asked furiously, holding onto his bleeding nose. His eyes widened. “You told her!”

“That’s what it implies, now, doesn’t it?” Quinn released the safety trigger, but Crusher Dan quickly leapt upon him, pinning his arms back and disarming him before he could fire a single shot.

“Oi!” the barkeeper called. “No fightin’ in my tavern!”

“Well then, we’d best take our discussion elsewhere,” sneered Two-Blade Pete. He jerked a thumb outside. “Come on, Dan. Grab lover-boy and we’ll _talk_.”

 

The first sentry didn’t notice that he had been stabbed until Myrie pulled her dagger out of his chest. His companions struggled briefly against the Seraph before they were subdued. Thanks to Gryphon’s mesmeric abilities, the minds of the other guards were cloaked with a haze which disabled their hearing, allowing him to disintegrate their minds with a bolt of chaotic suggestion.

“There are still at least fifteen Widowmakers surrounding Doc. Who would’ve thought that they were working for Pete all along?”

“Perhaps they’re not,” Gryphon muttered, glancing at the crew. “I managed to glean a scrap of thought from one of them when I took that group down. His thought suggested that both Pete and the Widomakers are working together for a higher-up. I didn’t fully discern who, but..”

“She’s moving,” Thackery hissed, motioning his soldiers forward. “We’re going to need to keep going soon if we want to save our city.”

“Your city,” Myrie corrected, “but we can debate that later.” With that, she vanished into the shadows. Now’s my time, she thought, twirling a dagger in her hand. Her mind flashed back to her younger days, when Quinn was teaching her how to fight. Despite the fact that she had been a girl- and one who had been wealthy, to boot- Quinn had decided to take a risk and train her how to fight. Though the boys of the street protested, he was confident in her skill and street-smarts. He had been her one friend after her father’s return from war and into madness, and now he was all alone, facing one of the most ruthless leaders in Divinity’s Reach and his bodyguard.    
  I can’t let him fail, she thought, gritting her teeth. I must succeed- I owe him that much. And, she thought, slitting a guard’s throat silently, when he returns, I’m not sure whether I’ll kiss him or punch him in the nose.

 

Quinn coughed up blood as Dan pulled his hand back, shaking off the crimson droplets that had landed on him.

“See, lover-boy,” Two-Blade Pete crouched to look up at the double-bent thief, “this is what happens when you defy me. You know how far my reach is. I run these streets. Even the lowliest urchin knows that Rurikton’s underground is my territory. But you,” he continued, motioning for Dan to step aside and hold Quinn straight again, “seem to think that you can beat me!”

Quinn folded once more, heaving dryly as Pete’s barrage of strikes struck repeatedly at his gut. As his former boss stepped back, he glowered at him through blurred eyes.

“You claim to be such a terror,” he coughed, spitting out a thin dribble of blood, “yet you still can’t face me without Dan’s backup, huh?”

Pete’s eyes flashed and his nostrils flared, causing the scar on his face to blanch a vivid white. “Well, then, skritt-brain, you want a fight? You’ve got it. Dan, get off of him. Looks like he’s still got some bones in that spine of his.”

As the bodyguard stepped back, Quinn got to his feet, swaying unsteadily. “Give me a weapon,” he grunted, “so we can do this properly.”

“Don’t think you’re getting a pistol. I seem to recall something about you being a crack shot from the old days. Here.”

He kicked Quinn a dagger. The thief bent quickly yet painfully to grab it -- despite his injuries, he was determined to fight with all that he had.

“Say hello to Grenth for me,” Quinn said. Blood stained his reckless grin.

He stepped to the side and readied his stance as Pete lunged towards him.

 

 

There was a wet _shunk_ as Myrie twisted her dagger into one straggling rogue, silencing his muffled screams. She glanced back towards Gryphon and Captain Thackeray. They were circling around in the shadows, ever-watchful for scouts that might alert Doc Howler to their presence before they were ready.

“She’s vulnerable now,” Myrie whispered, facing the mesmer. He relayed the message to the captain, and he nodded.

“On your word, Miss Ward,” Thackeray said, readying a spell.

Her heart hammered in her chest. She was about to attack one who had been a member of her own gang. Despite the stakes, her stomach twisted guiltily. Howler had been a loose screw, but she was a useful one. She grimaced. Quinn’s not risking his life so you can have a moral dilemma, Myrie reminded herself. She could no longer wait.

“Now!”

The three rushed upon the posse, encountering the more-experienced guards first. Though they were armed, Myrie, Gryphon, and Thackeray all had the element of surprise on their hands.

“Doc!” screamed one of them as he grappled with Myrie, “the poison! We’re under attack!”

Myrie kneed him in the stomach, causing him to bend over. Instead of staying down, however, he rolled behind her and grabbed her in a chokehold. She cautiously yet quickly moved so that she was no longer being choked, then grabbed his arm, twisted her body, and threw him to the ground.

“Gryphon!” she gasped. “The Doctor!”

Howler had noticed the commotion and was feverishly working on opening the keg of poison. Her pale face was covered in a sheen of sweat, and her eyes flashed madly. “Pete and I have planned this for months,” she cackled. “We will finally break the power-hold of the Queen and her lackeys! You cannot – !”

Her speech was abruptly interrupted by Captain Thackeray. With a roar, he launched himself at the doctor, smashing her hand against the cobblestones.

 

Despite his injuries, Quinn was still deadly with a weapon. Pete got an especially good reminder when Quinn’s dagger scoured his temple, shearing off a chunk of his flesh and brow. Snarling in pain, the thug changed his stance to a more defensive position, switching his dagger hand and watching warily. Blood streamed down his temple.

“Boss?” Dan asked cautiously.

“Not now, you oaf!” Pete roared, lunging at an opening in Quinn’s guard.

The thief dodged nimbly, wincing as the pain in his side and stomach flared up. Dan didn’t need to join the fight – he had already done enough damage. The taste of iron in his mouth no longer was noticeable, the only change in its flavor was the addition of an acid undertone. Even though his face remained as composed as it could be, Quinn knew that he was running out of time.

Time, he thought, remembering why he fought. I need to buy time for Myrie. The city- the poison… His hand shook, haziness fogging his reflexes. A sharp pain sliced through his arm – he left himself unguarded for too long. An agonized shout tore from his mouth, and he quickly stepped back. He glanced down, and his stomach dropped.

Two-Blade Pete had nicked an artery. Quinn’s head spun. He had performed the same maneuver on other, less-experienced fighters. They left their guard down for second too long after a strike, and…

“What’s the matter?” jeered Pete, his face livid with hate. “Not slowing down already, are you?”

Quinn slashed at him, pleased that his opponent’s eyes widened with fear at the attack. Pete danced back quickly, deflecting the slash and sending jolts of pain shuddering up his arm. Quinn tossed his dagger to the other hand, guarding his wounded arm and gritting his teeth. There was no time for talking now- he needed to keep what strength he could. What strength was already ebbing from his body…

A sudden blur of movement raced towards his chest. Quinn tried to move his arm up to block the attack, but his movements were slowed, as if he was fighting underwater. He was dully aware of a wet thud as Pete’s dagger bit hungrily into his flesh. The blackness that had been nibbling at his consciousness surged higher, stealing what little stamina he had tried to reserve. His body swayed, and a stream of crimson ichor flowed from his mouth and splattered onto the pavement. He sent up a silent prayer to the gods.

Protect her, his mind whispered. I can’t hold on any longer.

As his limp form toppled to the ground, his eyes fluttered. Pete’s boot plummeted towards his face, the thug’s mouth twisted in a sadistic snarl.

A weak smile quivered onto Quinn’s face. Myrie would make it. He won.

The brutal crunch of shattered bone and splashed blood echoed through the street.

 

After Captain Thackeray had incapacitated Doc Howler, her fight had been weak and feeble. Myrie stalked up to her.

“Tell me,” she hissed, grabbing a fistful of the woman’s hair and pulling her to her knees. “Where is Quinn?”

The woman coughed, gore gurgling in her throat. “I think the better question,” she said, smiling through bloodstained teeth, “is where Pete is.”

Myrie punched Howler’s monacle, sending shards of glass into the doctor’s eye. She screamed in agony.

“Myrie!” Gryphon shouted, striding up behind her and restraining her. “Enough! There is another way to get information.”

“What do you know? She won’t – !”

He shot her a glare and motioned to the captain. “Keep her back, please,” he said, stepping towards the wounded woman. Thackeray stepped behind the thief and dragged her away, shielding himself from her wild blows.

“Let the man do his work,” he grunted as a fist thumped his steel chestplate. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Gryphon knelt in front of Doc Howler, his face grim. “You and I both know that you have only a few moments to live. Your injuries are too severe for you to be saved. So let’s see if you’re willing to make peace with the gods before you die- where is Two-Blade Pete?”

She spat at his face, staining his features with her blood. “I’ll never tell you,” she sneered, coughing up more gore. “I’ll carry that knowledge to the grave!”

He sighed. “Then you leave me no choice.” He raised his hands and cupped her face, closing his eyes. His lips moved as if in prayer.

“What are you – ?” Howler’s head snapped back, her mouth slackened, and her eye rolled back into her head. Gryphon Radwing stood shortly, leaving Howler’s corpse to crumple onto the bloodstained pavement. His face was grim.

“Pete is in Rurikton,” he said distantly. “And so is Quinn.”


	11. Arc 1, Chapter 11

 

A woman paused washing her laundry in the river, stopping momentarily to dry her hands on her apron. It seemed like a promising morning. She smiled, basking in the early rays of warm sun that streamed onto her face. Birds were singing in the nearby trees as the smell of bread from the nearby ovens mixed with the heady, sharp odors of nearby livestock and twined with the delicate perfume the lilac soap she kept corded in her basket. She sighed as she grabbed some of the dirty laundry, returned her gaze to the water – and screamed.

 

“Myrie, we can’t just run out against Pete at this hour of the morning. He has most likely retreated and is reco – ”

“I don’t care.” She stalked forward, green eyes burning dully. “We’ve got to get to Quinn while we still have time…” She stumbled, hand clutching her side. Though it had been months since it had been broken, there was still a twinge of pain when her rib was bumped- and more than one whack had been given to it over the course of the past day. She grunted and ground her teeth, fighting to ignore the throbbing bone. “He’s probably still fighting. He’s still got a chance.”

Gryphon’s brow furrowed in concern. “Myrie, no man could possibly hold out in a fight for as long as he would have to be to keep up at this hour. We should rest and recover. Captain Thackeray in with a patrol unit and is looking for either Pete or Quinn.” He placed a firm hand on her swaying shoulder, looking into her eyes sternly. “You are in no condition to keep fighting. Rest.”

She snorted, pulling away. “I’ve been in worse scrapes than this, old man. We thieves have a code of honor among our kind. If Quinn’s still fighting, I’ve got to help him. We look out for each other.”

“And so do the rest of the citizens of Divinity’s Reach,” he replied, frustration creeping into his tone. “This isn’t me being selfish or overly-concerned. This is common sense. You cannot possibly go out at this time. Pete’s gang has most likely been alerted to your presence. As of now, they may have been rested and ready for hours. You, on the other hand,” he said, “have been fighting for the whole night!”

“It doesn’t matter! I need to get to him! I need to tell him –!”

  
Her voice was abruptly cut off as her eyes rolled back into her head and a faint halo of mesmeric magic faded. Gryphon Radwing caught her falling form and laid her gently onto the cot.   
“I’m sorry,” he said as he pulled the blankets closer to her chin. “This is for your own good.” After making sure that that her weapons were out of reach, he arrayed himself on a nearby couch.  “You can catch him tomorrow,” he murmured, eyes closing. “But for now, we all need to rest.”

 

Myrie awoke to the rays of the setting sun tickling her face. Outside the window, she saw the glowing streetlamps of town starting to light. For a moment, she struggled to recall the events of the past two days through her mind’s fog of confusion. One thought finally broke through the uncertainty.

  
Quinn, she thought, and threw the blankets off her. She growled softly as her sore, stiff body creaked into use again. The fight of the previous nights had been more intense than she would have liked to admit. And speaking of fights…. Her hands flew to her belt, where her daggers were usually strapped. A muttered oath leaked out of her mouth at their absence. She whirled around, finally catching sight of her weapons on a small, modest cabinet. Next to them were a note and several bottles of potion, under which lay a cloth-wrapped parcel. Although impatient, Myrie took the time to snatch up the items, stuffing the potions into her bag alongside the package. As she buckled her daggers back into their hilts, she read the small note. 

“Miss Ward-

I hope you’ll forgive me for the measures I took earlier. You were entirely too reckless for your own health and those around you. I nonetheless hope that you are well-rested and that the food is to your liking. I am currently with Selana, fighting off the few packs of bandits that are still hiding some of the remaining nobles. Captain Thackeray has agreed to go with you in my stead while I patrol the hillside. I will attempt to contact you at a later time.

Deal justice, Myrie. May the gods smile on you.

~Gryphon Radwing.”

In her haste to walk out the door, she had barely realized the intense hunger gnawing at her spine. Myrie quickly reached into her pack and devoured the vittles – an earthy, mushroom-and-herb-studded bread that sandwiched a thinly-grilled slab of poultry. She ignored the slight guilt at barely tasting the food, as she was sure that it had taken a fair amount of time to make. It didn’t matter. Quinn needed to be saved – and Pete needed to be killed.

 

Worry replaced hunger knotting her stomach as she passed the fountain in the main street where the village women would gather to gossip.

“There, there, now, Abitha. Tell us what happened,” one of them said soothingly, stroking the younger woman’s back. The middle-aged laundress hiccupped.

“It was horrible,” she croaked, wiping her nose on her stained sleeve. “I was simply washing my clothes and enjoying the fresh air, and then I looked into the water and…!” She moaned and covered her face in her apron.

A heavyset woman with curly hair shook her shoulder gently yet firmly. “Come now, you must tell us! What did you see?”

The laundress raised her pale, blotchy face from her lap and bit her lip.

“A – a hand. And then a head…! Oh, it was a young man! Poor boy!” At this, she buried herself in the flounces of her dress. “My Tom isn’t much younger than he could have been. Oh, that poor boy! Murdered!”

Another washerwoman, her face pinched with age, patted her back, her gnarled hands trembling. “I think I had seen him before,” she whispered unsteadily. “He was one of the village boys….”

Myrie found herself among them.

“What was his name?” she asked. Abitha looked up, startled. The aged woman beside her answered.

“Quinn.” The crone’s face turned up towards hers, fear and sorrow echoing in the thief’s troubled heart. “His name was Quinn.”

 

 

“Did you hear about that thief who got murdered?” 

“Quinn? I heard he was killed by Two-Blade Pete. They found one half of him in the fountain and the other half in the river.”

“Word has it he was a good friend with one of the Shaemoor fighters, for all the good that did him…”

“Still, I wouldn’t want to be in his killer’s shoes….”

Myrie’s numb mind barely registered the skittish whispers that swirled around the town as she stalked toward the tavern. It was the last place she remembered hearing of Pete’s location. Knowing him, the thug was probably celebrating his grisly victory over one of the few men who Myrie had truly and deeply cared about. Somewhere in the corner of her mind, she felt as though she should be on the ground, sobbing her agonies to the heavens, but what use would that be? No. Her best use would be to bring Quinn’s killer to justice. As she neared the tavern, she caught sight of a familiar head of rich brown hair and gleaming silver armor. Though Gryphon had warned her that he would be here, she was nonetheless displeased to find him.

“Captain Thackeray,” she said flatly. “I hope you’re not here to bring Pete to jail. With everything he’s done, I can’t let that happen.”

To her surprise, the man nodded, his own eyes blazing. “You’ll find no objection to killing him here. That man has been a tyrant on the streets for too long, and no one I’ve talked to wants to live one day more under his oppressive fist. As much as it goes against what some in the Council would say, I have to agree with you. Pete has to be eliminated permanently.”

Myrie was briefly shocked, the numb hands gripping her daggers slick with sweat. “Not exactly something I’d expect from someone with armor that shining, Brownielocks.”

“I’ve lost people that I have cared about, too,” the captain explained, shifting slightly. He peered into the tavern’s hazy atmosphere. “My brother.”

She knew that the man would not continue further. She glanced towards the tavern again. Several of the patrons had noticed the Seraph’s gleaming armor and discreetly sneaked out the back. However, Two-Blade Pete was nowhere to be seen.

“Bloody coward,” the thief muttered in cold rage. “I know what he’s doing. Come on. If we want to draw out the rat, we’ve got to enter his maze.”

She strode into the building, beckoned the man to follow her, and sat at the bar. She kicked out a stool for him and leaned forward towards the owner. Andrew, the new owner of the tavern, was a jolly man with a stout stomach and kindly face. He looked up from the mug he had been drying and beamed.

“Ah, greetings, Miss Ward! What will it be today?”

He drew back slightly at her gaze, eyes widening nervously. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she replied quietly. “Andrew, you need to leave. Take Petra and get out of here. It’s not going to be safe for much longer.”

“What does my daughter have to…?”

“Get out. Two-Blade Pete is on his way, and he’s going to be sending backup ahead of him.” Though she briefly wondered why it would be called ‘backup’ if they were going to be in front of him. She pushed the thought back to her mind and refocused on the task at hand. Andrew cleared his throat, face paling, and stopped polishing the glass.

“I’ll get her and leave,” he said quietly. He ducked back into the storeroom, pausing to thank her for the warning. She nodded mutely. Once the bar was empty of all but a few patrons, she took the drink that he had set in front of her and began to down it with violent gusto.

“Now what?” the captain asked, raising an eyebrow at her behavior. She slammed the tankard down onto the counter, eyes burning holes into the etched wood.

“We wait.”

 

After the patrons had been grudgingly removed from their perches, the streets were remarkably silent. The normal chatter and gossip on the streets stilled, and though it was the middle of the day, the windows on every house were shut and doors were bolted as if it were the most dangerous night of the year. Gang war, the silence seemed to hiss. Nerves prickled on the necks of all within. Either get out of the way or get fighting. 

Footsteps broke the tense silence of the town. The lackeys who bore them barely made it inside the tavern’s door before either fleeing or staining the cobblestones with their life’s blood. Even Crusher Dan soon barreled through with a small force of guards.

“It’s not too late, you know,” he grunted, swinging his hammer at Myrie’s head. She ducked, dodging the blow and rolling toward his knees, slashing with cold precision. Captain Thackeray quickly parried and fought against Dan’s guards, keeping them from both the thief and from injuring himself.

“Dan, you idjit,” she hissed, ignoring his yowl of pain as he crumpled to the ground, “since when has Pete forgiven anyone? I could barely keep that rabid dog leashed as my lieutenant!”

The thug looked up at her and sneered. “Yeah, and now look where he’s got Quinn – !”

His taunt was brutally cut off by the gleaming silver sword of Captain Thackeray, which also conveniently relieved him of his noggin. Myrie glanced up at him from her kneeling position.

“Thanks,” she panted. He nodded mutely, shoulders heaving.

“Just how many more of these people can he afford to throw out?” he asked grimly, shoving his hand through his hair and wiping off a thin sheen of sweat.

Myrie’s eyes flicked towards the doorway. “Judging from his recent ‘toss’, I would say not many. Dan was one of his last resorts he’d use before dealing with the problem himself.” Her emerald eyes narrowed into slits. “Come on,” she growled, stumbling towards the barstools and struggling to stack them against the door. Thackeray looked at her askance.

“I thought the plan was to bring him to justice, not bunker out in here behind the furniture.”

She gave him a look. “That is the plan. But I’m not stupid. Regardless of how we fight, Pete’s a close match for us in combat. If we can wear him down cutting down or moving these chairs, though, that’ll be one point in our favor.”

Captain Thackeray found himself admiring the woman’s resourcefulness. Although she often came across – and was – flippant and nonchalant, beneath the Dhumm-may-care attitude was a mind that was constantly and furiously ticking. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he cracked a grim smile.

“Let’s make this a bit more fun for him, then,” he said, splaying his fingers over the slapdash blockade. A wave of glowing blue magic washed over it, covering the obstruction in a faintly-humming bubble.

“Protection spell,” he explained. “If the chairs are protected, Pete will have an even harder time trying to break through.”

“Not a bad plan. How long will it hold up?” Myrie asked, shifting her grip on her daggers and glancing out the doorframe.

Thackeray grimaced. “Depends on how angry he is today.”

The thief set her mouth in a thin line. “Great. Means we’ve got maybe thirty seconds. Guess we’ll just have to kick him around a bit so he understands what he’s done.”

 

The following few minutes dragged on in agony. Myrie’s nerves were shot, but she and Thackeray worked quickly with what they had to bandage the wounds they had earned.

“Should we conceal ourselves behind the bar?” asked the Seraph, wrapping his wrist with strips of a shredded towel.

“You mean, ‘hide’?” Myrie snorted, clenching her teeth as she poured whiskey onto her bleeding arm. “No. We do things street-style. No hiding, no pleading for repentance, and no retreating. This ends n – ”

There was a sudden crunch as Pete’s sword bounced off the shield and bit into the doorframe.

“Myrie, this is unlike you,” he taunted. “A blockade won’t keep me out forever.”

“Come and get me, then, you skritt-faced dolyak,” she sneered, hands clenching on her daggers. “If you’re so feared, why send all of those lackeys ahead of you instead of facing me straight off?”

With a furious bellow, he rammed his shoulder into the makeshift wall. “You know,” he panted as the shield flickered dully, “I still can’t get over how you thought you could take on me. _Me!”_ He broke through the magical barrier and shoved a chair aside. “You really think you can kill me? I’ll break you and make an example of anyone else who tries!”

“Better men then you have already tried,” Myrie snarled back. Her weapons gleamed with a dull sheen of poison, her stance light but sure.

“So what?” A vein stood prominently on the thug’s forehead as he bashed into the barricade again.

“Tried and _failed.”_

“They weren’t me. You might have been in charge once, but that changes nothing. Don’t think I’ll go easy on you, Ward.” He broke through the chairs and held his sword at the ready. “This ends today.”


	12. Arc 1, Chapter 12

 Two-Blade Pete seemed hardly fazed by the barrier – if anything, his attacks were fiercer than Myrie had hoped, as if the anger from breaking it down fueled his strikes. She rolled swiftly beneath a wild slash, neck prickling as the air breezed over her throat.

“You pretentious little rat,” he sneered, “did you really think that you could just come over here and avenge your lover-boy? Don’t you remember how long you’ve been gone?”

“Three years is not a long time, scag,” she growled, slamming her foot onto an unstable floorboard and tipping him off-balance. He stumbled back towards Captain Thackeray’s swinging sword but quickly shot down to the floor, rolling back against the wall. He flicked a small bottle open and dumped its contents on his blade.

“Poison!” she warned, stepping in as Thackeray’s head bobbed down. Why the man couldn’t take the time of day to wear a bleeding helmet was beyond her.  “Queenie won’t recognize your face if it’s slashed in two, Brownielocks!” she huffed irately.

“I’ll remember it next time!” he shouted, bashing Pete’s face with his shield. The thug grunted, grip faltering on his weapon as he stumbled back. He glared up at them, blood dripping from his nose, and cracked it back into place.

“Hey, now you’re symmetrical.” Myrie’s smirk was as sharp as her knife.

“And I’m still breathing,” the ranger retorted.

She roared and leaped recklessly at him. His eyes narrowed as he swung his sword up to meet her exposed neck. Just before it hit, a blue aura enfolded the thief, causing it to harmlessly bounce away.

“Can’t go to the Mists so soon, Myrie,” Logan said, circling around to stand protectively in front of her. “Quinn wouldn’t like that.”

“Shut up!” she snarled, stepping back to regain her balance. She threw a smokescreen down. A thick plume of grey wafted through the air.

“Myrie, that wasn’t a good idea,” Pete sang. He pulled a torch from his belt. “A girl like you could get burned if she can’t see where she’s going…” He lit the blaze and flung it to the ground.

 

Rangers, the thief thought crossly. Always ruining my day with their traps. She protectively threw her hands in front of her face as the orange embers nipped at her. Through her squinted eyes, she saw Pete rushing at her. Thinking quickly, she swiped his smoldering torch from the ground and hurled it at his face. He yowled in pain, brushing feverishly at his eyes and stumbling back over a fallen chair. She took the opportunity and ran at him, leaping and twisting her body as she vaulted over and behind the temporarily-blinded foe.   

Something is off, she thought. Pete lashed out wildly; she was barely able to block the ranger’s whirling defense. As he stood again, Thackeray charged, bashing the thug’s shoulder with his shield and knocking him off-balance. With a feral snarl, he rolled back into a corner, eyes dancing with a wild light. It was then that Myrie realized what was wrong.

Pete was _scared_. Nothing had scared him before – not mutiny, not overwhelming odds – even the threat of being captured by centaurs only made him laugh. What was it that had him so on edge?

“I promised them,” Myrie barely heard his reedy, shaky whisper. His bloodshot eyes streamed as Captain Thackeray’s sword flicked in front of his nose, missing him by only a hair’s breadth. The returning parry seemed weak. “I promised them their blood and their glory, and you will not stop me!” He dove at Myrie and slashed at her legs. She leapt above the blade, landing on it and snapping it in two.

“Well, whoever _they_ are,” she grunted as she kicked him in the face, “tell them to buy you better swords.”

“You have to understand. He had to die! They would have killed us – or worse!” Despite the fact that he was nearly-disarmed, Two-Blade’s movements only grew more fierce. Desperation’s reckless fuel filled his veins and clouded his brain. Whatever sentences he managed to keep choking out were proof that something was terribly and horribly wrong.  “They’re coming back, Myrie,” he giggled. “There are those who have lost their faith and betrayed us, but we know. We have seen the signs….”

She pounced on him, knocking him to the ground and relieving him of some teeth with satisfying pops cracks. He laughed, blood dribbling from his mouth.

“But no. You still don’t know, do you?” His gaze was unfocused as he tried to scrabble backwards. “No, no, no. It’s not that you don’t know, it’s that you still don’t _see_. But I do. We do…. “

She gave a wild cry and drew back her dagger to cut his throat. Before she could, a strong hand gripped her wrist.   
“Let me finish this,” she shouted, struggling against the Seraph’s grip.

“Wait,” Thackery said, eyes narrowing. His gaze pierced the wounded man in front of him. “Who is this ‘we’? Who do you work for?”

The man coughed, blood gurgling in his throat. “Oh, think, Captain. Do you know the story of those around you? Do you really understand the relevance of the events?” He sneered. “I won’t tell. You’re the captain, after all. Figure it out” A lazy smile drifted onto his face. “Besides,” he sighed dreamily, “being killed here is better than the agony they would inflict…”

“Speak now,” Myrie said, hating the way her voice cracked. “Why did you kill Quinn? Answer me, you son of a krait!”

“Myrie, calm down,” Logan said sharply. “Let him speak – there may be more he’s working with!”

  
“No! No more games! This is why I tracked him down, Seraph, and if you want your answers, he’ll give me mine first!”

  
Pete rolled his eyes as his lip curled. “Always so blind to the obvious, Ward. There aren’t many who could see the Unseen.” He laughed. 

The thief in front of him trembled with rage and tugged vainly on her held arm.   
“I told you, no more games, Pete,” Myrie hissed. She relaxed for a half second, throwing Thackeray off-balance just long enough for her to flip her dagger in her free hand and plunge the blade into Pete’s chest.

“No!” Thackeray’s grip finally loosened on her. He knelt to the ranger’s side as his healing magic attempted in vain to close the wound. “Myrie, what have you done?”

  
The thief stepped back, pulling her dagger away and breathing heavily. “I did what you were too cowardly to do, Thackeray. You would have let him rot in prison for more information.”

  
The Seraph’s gaze was filled with silent fury. The magic at Pete’s wounds faded as blood continued to pool. “Leave. Now.”

Pete smiled as Myrie left, shrugging weakly.

“Oh, she was right. And I’m sure you already know it’s too late for me, Krytan.” he sighed. “But I will give you this…” The ranger cleared his throat slightly as captain leaned towards the dying man and his breath rattled in his chest. “Glory to… the Mantle.”

**_END OF ARC 1_ **


	13. Arc 2, Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrie finds a note.

Captain Thackeray’s calls echoed like a dream in Myrie’s mind. Though she ignored him as she walked from the battlefield, he made no move to stop her. She had to get away from it, from him, from the remnants of blood and gore that lingered so freshly in her mind. In a haze of grief and anger, she walked back down the alleyways and past the bridge south of the tavern. A different perspective might help her to process all that had happened. She was certain that Brownielocks couldn’t climb a tree in all of that platemail. She hooked her feet into the knot of an old trunk, hoisted herself up, and climbed until she was at least ten feet above the ground. It was only there, away from everything, that Myrie finally allowed herself to grieve.

  
Her tears ran lines through the dust and dirt on her leather armor. In the red light of the setting sun, they looked like blood. She buried her face in her arms as her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Who could even begin to help her with this? Her mother would have too many things to say. Her father would be of no use at all, lost in his madness. It was her mind and thoughts alone that kept her company as she mourned the death of Quinn. As much as she wanted to retreat and withdraw from the world, she knew that such a thing was impossible. The world always found you, she had learned, and sometimes it wore spiked boots to kick you when you were down. How many hours had passed? The stars and moon lit the ground below in a soft, silvery light. She finally took a deep, shaking breath and wiped her face one last time before she leapt to the ground.   
  
Where she landed, the tile beneath her foot shifted. Already off-balance from not moving for however long she had been in the tree, Myrie fell gracelessly to the ground with a smack. She picked herself up and ran her hands through her hair, then whirled to glare at and and pry the offending stone from its hold. Of all the things she needed, another injury was not one of them. A flutter of dusty cream-colored parchment by her foot gave her pause.

In the rush of the past few days, nearly everything that had happened at the party was a blur. Quinn’s voice echoed in her mind as she whirled around, realizing where she was. “Seven steps north of the bridge…”

He had left his letter here.

 

  
The thief dropped the tile, ignoring the ominous breaking sound it made, and clawed at the poorly-dribbled, crushed wax seal on the paper that had been hidden below. She recognized Quinn’s uncertain handwriting immediately.

“Myrie,” the letter read, “please know that if you are reading this now, my death is not your fault. I knew what I was doing and was aware of the risks. If I didn’t come back, just know that I figured that was going to be one of the outcomes, even though I really hope that I do get the chance to return. It’s just… I’ve done too much bad in my life for me to feel justified in staying behind during this time of trial. I had to do it, Myrie. Not just for myself, but for you.”

Despite herself, a small smile quivered onto her face. Typical Quinn, she thought. Excusing yourself for the sake of others. Idiot.

“Now, I know you’re probably thinking how much of an idiot I am, but that’s what I do, right? Anyhow, I feel like I should apologize for some of my mistakes, too. No, don’t try saying that I have nothing to apologize for- you know it’s true, and you need to remember it now. Take a breath, wipe your nose, and keep reading.

I’m sorry that I was quiet for so long. I should have found you and forgotten about Pete. Heck, I’m sure you had some pretty amazing adventures. I only wish that I could have been on them with you. I’m sorry for being a coward. You were always more than a friend to me, Myrie, but I was too thick-headed and scared to tell you. I was afraid that you’d not reciprocate my feelings or laugh at me. I’m sorry that I waited until it was too late to tell you. I would have loved to know your answer. Now I’m dead with no reply, and I can’t stop cursing my timing. I should have been there on the days when you told me to leave. I mean, I know you were being tough, but I also know that you really needed someone to listen to your feelings even if you claimed otherwise. I’m sorry for being an idiot- yes, you were right, I was an idiot at times- but I just couldn’t know how to act sometimes. I did it just to see you grin, you know, but I do realize that at times I caused you unnecessary worry. I apologize for that. And I’m sorry that you won’t be able to learn how to shoot from the best sharpshooter in town.”

She snorted at the unexpected bit of his old snark in an apologetic paragraph, bit her lip as her eyes watered, and continued to read.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You are overwhelmed with awe at my revelation of sharpshooter-extraordinare. If you do get the chance, though, look just below the ground for a special present. But wait until the end of the letter before you do! I mean, I’ve got more to say- not much, but I’d like you to read it. Please.

This part is hard for me to write. With the way I behaved earlier, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to read this, but it’s here anyway. I know it’s not the most romantic thing on Tyria, but I really did mean what I said when you were at the party before it went all to Mists. I’ll never stop loving you, Myrie, and if you feel the same, move on.”

She nearly dropped the letter, eyes narrowing in anger as she continued to read.

“Don’t be angry. Use your head- this is my last will and testament you’re reading here. If you decide to pledge yourself to me even after I’m gone, what chance will you have of finding someone else to love? It isn’t possible, so quit shaking your head. Remember me, but let me go. I want you to be joyful, not happy. Happiness flees after a short while, but joy perseveres in the darkest of nights. You gave me joy, Myrie, even if it was for only a few years of unrequited affection. If you insist on having a memory of that, of my love for you, then look at the back of this parchment. If not, just stop reading and know that even in death, I will protect you.

Stay safe, Miss Ward.

Your friend, ally, and faithful idiot, Quinn.”

Myrie flipped it over, confusion and heartache twisting her chest. A small envelope was attached to the back of the letter. She gently opened it and removed a delicate golden chain. Instead of a jewel, however, its pendant was a simple engraved ring. A note fluttered out of the envelope.

“Was walking through Div’s and snatched this. It made me think of you.”

  
She held up the golden circle and squinted at the tiny letters, lips moving as she read them silently.

_“Through death, love lives forever.”_

She choked back a sob. With shaking fingers, she unclasped the chain and slipped it around her neck. After doing so, she knelt by the tile’s empty space and brushed aside more dirt that hid beneath it a simple box; it held Quinn’s favorite pistol- the “Master Blaster.”

“Shoot for the stars, Myrie,” its note read. She laughed.

“Will do,” she whispered, pressing the ring to her lips. She gathered up the items, placed the tile back in its place, and began her walk home.


	14. Arc 2, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selana begins to suspect that Gryphon is hiding something about her parents.

In a different part of town, the early morning light was not the primary reason for one occupant’s rising.  Selana  Firestone had, in fact, been awake for hours, staring at a parchment which had been delivered the night before. 

_A warning?_  she thought, brow furrowing in confusion. The letter that sat before her was printed on fine paper, but she doubted that the sender was a noble who was playing a prank.  Murder threats of the cultic variety may have made for an amusing past-time among those who had no ties to the White Mantle, but as the daughter of those who had fought them, Selana knew all too well the ancient order’s penchant for vengeance.    
She rose from her chair, nightdress whispering over her feet as she exited her quarters. As she turned toward the main hall of her home, she was greeted by a familiar face.

“Gryphon! A pleasure to see you,” she smiled.  Her eyes widened; she quickly stepped behind a pillar and peeked out from behind it. “Though I do wish you had given me a bit more of a warning as to when you would arrive.”

“Selana, I’ve known you since you were but my knees’ height. There’s no need for formality,” he replied, chuckling. He then realized her state of dress. “But I will agree that there are some things which have changed, so feel free to – ”

“Thank you,” she replied hastily, departing with wind-borne speed to change. Moments later, she emerged in a casual yet elegant morning gown. She smiled. “Much better, yes?”

“Definitely,” the mesmer agreed. The door to the servants’ area opened with a slow creak, and from it stepped an elderly gentleman, stooped slightly with age yet with a fiery, intelligent spark in his eye. 

“A pleasure to see you again, Lord Radwing.”  He bowed his head.  “Is there anything which I may do for you?”

“Samuel, at your age, I should be asking that of you,” the lord replied, beckoning the ancient to rise and clasping him on the arm.   “Are you well?”

“As well as can be expected,” Samuel responded, clearing his throat and furrowing his bushy brows. “And you, Lady Firestone?” 

“I am well, Sam,” she laughed, giving the old man a hug. “You needn’t worry so much.”

At this, his eyes narrowed. “Oh? What of this letter which has kept you up all night, hm?  Let me see what can be done to soothe your worry.  I’m sure I could find something in the antiques’ wing…”

“No, Samuel, that is not necessary,” she replied hastily. “Please do not strain yourself for my sake.”

“It is no less than what your parents would have wanted,” he said, straightening his spine with a  _ harrumph _ . “It is no extraordinary strain when one is asked to seek for the care and well-being of a child, and when finding a threat, to reduce it. All to be expected.”

At the mention of her parents, a shadow passed across Selana’s face. “It’s not totally certain that they’re dead, really,” she said firmly, sitting in a nearby chair. “We never got their official papers back.”

“Madam, I know that if they were living, they would have been here as soon as they could after their skirmishes against the Mantle,” Samuel insisted.

“But what if they merely got lost? Plenty of soldiers had been kidnapped in the uprisings, and it’s not unheard-of for them to find their ways home only now.”  The earth gave a low rumble, and an arc of stray electricity cracked from her hand, singing eerily on an empty porcelain vase.

“Selana,” Gryphon said quietly, placing a hand on her shaking soldier, “breathe.”

The woman shook her head sharply, staring at the marble table.  “I am perfectly fine, Gryphon, I just – ”

“ Selana , please – your teacup’s singed, and you’re shaking the ground.  Breathe.”

She sighed and slowly took a deep breath, closing her eyes. As she did, a light lavender mist trailed up her nose. When she opened he eyes once more, all traces of worry had left her face.

“Forgive me,” she said tonelessly, “It was childish to fuss.  Thank you.”

“No need to worry,” Gryphon murmured.  He couldn’t find it in him to meet her gaze. “You’ll find out what happened to them someday. About this letter…”

 She handed the parchment to him, showing no trace of the distress she had felt mere moments before.

“I know it’s odd,” she said, watching for a reaction, “but I can’t help but think that it’s possible for them to still be alive.”

The mesmer’s brows furrowed as he finished. “But why would they wait so long to send something? Selana, I understand a need for secrecy in the army, but I assure you that they would have contacted you years ago – ”

“It may have been waylaid.”

His eyes flickered from the writing back to her. He read, “‘We have information on your parents’ whereabouts. Come to the palace gardens at moonrise and avoid being seen. There are those who would stop us from telling you the truth.’” He folded the letter, and his voice, usually so warm and merry, rang with steely gravity. His eyes were twin flecks of ice- cold, clear, and unflinching. “This could very easily be a trap, Selana.”

The elementalist was not easily deterred. “They weren’t just simple soldiers, Gryphon,” she said crisply. “That much I can tell. The Ministry is hiding something, and it’s not the fact that there are illegal or unwarranted goings-on with the bandits or centaurs. Gods know there’s more to it than that.” She stood and strode to her window, throwing open the panes and fluttering the curtains. Accepting another cup of tea from Samuel, she retook her chair. Was she imagining things, or was her old servant pressing his lips, as if to keep unspoken words from fleeing? She dismissed the thought. It was impossible that he would consider secreting something this important to her.

This time, the  mesmer  stood. “All I ask is that you consider other angles to this story,” he sighed, running his hand through his coppery hair. “There are many who would be willing to take advantage of your position in the nobility in order to get a ransom payment. Or they could use your connections to manipulate events in the Ministry. I don’t think you understand just how many people in high positions care for you.”  Noticing her silence, he sighed. “I’ll give you some time to think about it, but if you do decide on going, let me know. Who knows,” he said, smiling ruefully, “perhaps they do have something about your parents.”

Selana nodded. “Thank you,” she replied, returning his smile with a small one of her own. “Rest assured that I will not go alone.”

The man bowed, thanked her for her information, and walked out the door. As soon as he was back on the cobbled streets, his face darkened. There was someone he needed to see.

Gryphon strode firmly into the Seraph headquarters, startling some of the guards.

“Somebody  contact  Captain Thackeray. We have important business to discuss, and the quicker we do so, the better.”


	15. Arc 2, Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gryphon assembles a secret meeting. Selana assembles a desperate band to help her on her quest.

Captain Logan Thackeray was not pleased to have his courier knocking on his door at such an early morning hour. He had been out on patrol the night before and had encountered a rather irritable and murderous group of centaurs who had killed two of his men and given him and the rest of his troops a sound beating. His body ached and complained as he struggled into his armor, and he hissed in pain when his bruised side was pressed against its straps. Yet the man who greeted him would have known none of this had he not heard the report from his fellow guardsman. 

“Captain,” he started, saluting his superior, “there is a man here who is very insistent upon seeing you.”

Mentally noting to further implement his staging process so as to not be disturbed unless upon the direst of circumstances, he asked, “Is it the Minister?” Logan was more than prepared to issue a notice against common-folk reporting missing swine to him should the opportunity present itself. 

“No, sir,” the Seraph answered, shuffling awkwardly, “he claims to be Lord Gryphon Radwing, and he is demanding to see you directly.”

“He refuses to speak with Groban?”

“Yes, sir. He is also claiming that his matter has to do with ‘secrets long buried,’ and that ‘its flames are beginning to surface.’ What on earth is he referring – ?”

Captain Thackeray quickly finished strapping on his armor and marched to the door. “Thank you, Seraph, that will be all,” he interrupted, saluting him. “I will return shortly.”

“And what of the list of farmers’ complaints that arrived last night?”

“Give them to the lieutenant!” he shouted, marching toward the main hall.

“A pleasure to see you, Captain,” Gryphon said coolly. “Is it customary to keep emergency business waiting this long?”

“Hold your impatience, Lord Radwing; I was writing letters of condolence to families the night before, and the screams of the dead didn't exactly allow for a restful slumber.”

“My apologies,” the mesmer replied, running his hand through his hair. Looking closely, it appeared as though he had also had a poor night’s sleep- either that or his morning had already tired him. Despite the solemn atmosphere, the captain couldn’t help but give a low laugh. 

“It appears as though we’ve both got a bit on our minds, hm? Anyhow, is this really what I think it is?”

“Not here,” the mesmer shot back, looking around, “Emergency business must be discussed in whispers. Follow me, and make it quick.”

 

Selana Firestone did not plan on going to the meeting-place alone. Whoever wrote the letter had attached to the back what she saw as irrefutable proof of her parents being alive – the mirror image of her own necklace. She was no mesmer, but she was still able to conjure the barest hint of illusion to hide it from Gryphon’s prying eyes. It was nothing short of a miracle that he didn’t manage to see through it. She had no doubt that he would have insisted on sending Seraph guards if he had managed to catch a glimpse of it, which would have been too obvious, as who knew of their methods would easily have been able to see them even if they attempted to obscure themselves.  “Official” help would take too long to coordinate.   

  
The necklace, she was certain, held if not one, than  _the_  key to remembering what little time she had with her parents, and finding out who had blurred her mind. She knew that her lack of memories was unnatural.  It hinted of magic – powerful magic.  It seemed familiar, not quite malicious like she would have expected.. The thought disturbed and angered her.  Who would betray her by doing such a thing? Whoever had the information on her parents and her missing memories had deliberately waited until they were certain of who she was.   
   Her thoughts turned back to the letter and its promises. Was it a trap to go where it wanted? Almost certainly. Yet curiosity and a strange, desperate longing carried her normally-sensible feet to the bar in the town. She would need help in case her meeting with the informants went south.

As Myrie Ward looked up from her drink, her eyes met with a figure she would have never bet coin on entering the establishment. Her pleasantly-earthy, mellow ale soured on her tongue. 

 “Firestone. What brings you here?”

The noblewoman glanced irately at the noisy chair she moved as she sat across from her and smoothed her cloak behind her.  “The exact opposite of what brings you to this place. While you are attempting to soothe your loss and perhaps ease the memory of Quinn’s death…”

Wrong words. Selana barely had time to blink before a dagger was pointed at her throat. Myrie’s eyes flashed, teeth bared in anger.

 “You really think that I’m such a coward,” the thief snarled, “that I would dishonor the memory of the man who I loved most? That I would just…drink all the pain away? If you’ve come to hurl insults, highborn, then you can either walk out or keep talking. We’ll see which one results in you keeping your tongue.”

 “Oi!” A slurred, feminine voice called out. Myrie’s orbs flickered towards its owner, giving Selana enough time to pin the thief’s arm back. She howled in frustration as the elementalist’s grip tightened, preventing her from reaching her other holstered weaponry. Whoever had spoken stepped- no, staggered- out of one of the more shadowed corners.

“If yer gonna fi…  _ hic! _  fight, then count me in.” An ancient hammerhead carved from sturdy Ascalonian stone slammed onto the bar’s counter; its wielder grinned wildly. 

 The faint sent of scorched wood and cinnamon floated through the air. Stunned by the recent and bold entrance of the newcomer, both elementalist and thief were silent, frozen mid-grapple. Ignoring the stares of other patrons, the woman continued smiling, waxy red skin gleaming dully in the lantern-light.

“Name’s Sylfia Wyldcaller, sylvari mercantary fer hoire an’ drink. S’a plezzer meetin’ ya.”


	16. Arc 2, Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylfia Wyldcaller joins Selana's party. Myrie continues to irritate her.

Despite her struggling, Selana kept a firm grasp on Myrie’s arm and  stared .  The sylvari’s skin  was  fire-red , and the leafy edges of her skin were dark and blackened as if she had been burned. Even the glowing pulse of her veins brighten ed  her skin with the vibrant orange of  smoldering  embers. If she  had any fire on her at all , the elementalist thought, it was no small miracle that she didn't immediately turn  into a walking bomb . The scent of Blood Legion whiskey on her breath was almost overpowering.

“Well, are ya gonna hoire me or not?” she asked, swaying unsteadily. An edge seemed to come to her voice, and though Selana was certain that the leaf-woman would have a hard time getting a solid strike  given her inebriation , if she  _ did _ land a  hit, it wouldn’t be pretty.

“I  would never even consider  – ”

“ Of course  she will!” Myrie broke in, frustration edging her voice. “And she’ll pay well, too.”

Selana’s grip on the thief’s wrists tightened, causing the shorter woman to yelp in pain.

“If you want me to shut up, you’re going to need to let me go, fire-head,” she hissed,  just low enough for her alone to hear.  Her  eyes  gleamed  with malicious glee. The elementalist’s eyes narrowed a dangerous fraction, and for a moment, Myrie was quite convinced that her retort would be rewarded by a very deadly gout of flame. Instead, to her great relief, the pale woman released her  and allowed  the blood to flow back into her arms.  Myrie  rubbed her wrists and glowered at the noblewoman.

“So, what’s the job?” she asked, scooting over to the mercenary’s side. After a couple of breaths, though, she quickly inched a bit further away, coughing lightly.

“The situation,” Selana replied, “is one of grave importance .  There is no small chance that we will  come into contact with  danger.” She pulled out her letter and placed it delicately on the bar, smoothing it out. Myrie leaned over and read it.

“Huh,” she mused, standing back up. “So there’s a bit of secrecy behind your past and you want us to act as backup in case your informants are unscrupulous. Makes sense.”

“If ya’ve got so much bleedin’ secrecy, why don’cha go to the Order of Whish…Whish…” The sylvari’s pale green eyes fluttered, and she grimaced, grip tightening on a nearby barstool.  ** “ ** Whispers **!” **  she finally huffed.

Myrie delicately raised her fingers and clapped, smirking. “Good on you, you’re sobering a bit!”

“Don’ say such an ‘orrid thing,” the woman growled, pressing her fingers to her forehead. “Sobriety brings bad mem’ries.” 

“Returning to the subject,” Selana cut in, “Myrie, your assumption is correct. And … Sylfia, I can assure you that I have asked some who claim to be in the Order for information on my parents. They have, so far, refused to answer me.”

“So they’re useless.”

“In this instance, yes,” the elementalist replied. She still seemed quite out of place in the rustic atmosphere, and her uncanny beauty was attracting several interested stares. A single twitch of her eyebrow or glance in their direction quickly returned the drinkers’ gazes to their mugs. “This is why we must take matters into our own hands. This letter and this necklace ,”  she  said as she  pulled her pendant up from her collarbone, “are all I have of my family. My blood family.” 

“Well, that last part wasn’t really necessary, was it?”

“ Family need not be blood ,” replied the redhead. “Gryphon Radwing has been a mentor and father figure to me for many years .  He  has earned my highest respect.”

“And Faren?” Myrie asked curiously.

“Faren,” the elementalist said coolly, leveling her blue eyes at Myrie’s green ones, “is a womanizing, good-hearted, air-brained idiot.”

The thief decided that she valued her life despite her recent loss and studied the bottom of her mug intently.

Sylfia, however, failed to realize Selana’s warning expression- either that, or she didn’t care what the elementalist would do.

“Lord Faren?  _ That _  sot?” The warrior threw her head back in a rough, barking laugh. “Oh, please. I don’t disagree with you on his womanizing or air-‘eadedness, but blight! Good-hearted? The man only thinks of himself- and of any attractive female within his immediate vicinity. Seflish, flirt, fool- those seem more apt, hm? And why on Tyria’s loverly green surface would  _ you _  be interested in him?”

The hairs on the back of Myrie’s neck rose, and she instinctively leapt away from the sylvari in time to avoid being incinerated by a white-hot bolt of fire. Sylfia, for her part, proved her sylvan reflexes useful, though the tips of her leafy hair were scorched by the spell. 

“What in Mists?” she hissed, reaching up with wild eyes to extinguish her tall leaf-spikes. “All I was doin’ was makin’ an ozzervation!”

“No,” replied Firestone, eyes twin chips of steely ice, “you were insulting not only Faren, but myself as well.”

“Well, that’s just fantastic,” yelped Myrie, leaping behind a bar and out of the line of fire. “But is it possible that we could speak normally for once  _ without burning Andrew’s bar down?!” _

A few terse minutes passed, during which the warrior and the elementalist eyed each other with barely-concealed hatred and tension.

“Really, don’t incinerate the place,” she continued, eyes darting from one red-head to another. “I would hate to lose a place of such fantastic memories of revenge and…” What was in her throat? Confound those emotions. She slipped her hand below her collarbone, pulling up Quinn’s ring and rubbing it briefly. Calmness washed over her mind, and her troubled breathing steadied.

_ ”I’m here,” _  she nearly heard his voice in her ear; felt his gentle hand on her shoulder.  _ “ _ _ Now go on, be the sensible one for once.” _

She really was getting crazier than  she thought .  She frowned  slightly  and dismissed the ghostly voice of Quinn .  She could talk to someone later . Not  now, though,  while  his echoes  were still comforting.

Which was quite the opposite of the situation five feet from her. Where was she?  Ah, yes.  D iffusion. 

She hated diffusion. 

“Just put your bleedin’ weapons away, confound it all!” she howled crossly. To her incredible shock (and the relief of all who were still frozen in fear to their seats), the women glowered at each other for a moment longer, and finally replaced spell and hammer.

“My apologies,” Selana finally murmured, glancing to her left. “My emotions clouded my judgement.”

“Oi, ‘sall right.” The sylvari reseated herself, grinning dryly and taking another swig of ale. “Oi’m still drunker than a fish, so.”

“You deserve an answer to your question, though,” the elementalist continued, seating herself with unusual awkwardness on a nearby chair. “Faren and I had been engaged recently. From what little I do remember of my childhood, he was a significant part of my life, and even now he still is involved in it, annoying though this can be. Even when we were younger, he was the more adventurous and trouble-making of us, and he would frequently use his charms to escape punishment. I would try to stop him, but it turns out that it wasn’t just nursery-maids and cooks who could be convinced by his wide smiles and infectious enthusiasm. I had hoped that he would grow up more as we aged, and for a while this seemed to be the case. Soon enough, we had realized that our friendship had deepened into something more serious. It was at this time that he asked for my hand in marriage, and I accepted. He had promised to be a gentleman within reason of his personality and to turn from his womanizing ways. The young rascal of my childhood had become a true nobleman- or so it seemed.” At this, the elementalist sighed, pale fingers lightly tapping her bottom lip.

“What happened?” the sylvari asked, sipping her ale intently, eyebrows raised in curiosity. Even some of the other patrons had silenced their conversation and were listening .  There was something poetic in the curve of her neck, the subdued ache and fresh pain of lost love.

“He broke his promise,” she whispered. “I found him conversing with another woman- a thing which would have not raised my suspicions had she not hurried away as soon as I was noticed. When I asked him who she was, he would not answer. He seemed unusually fidgety and tense, so I naturally assumed…”

“You assumed that he had taken on a lover.” 

“Yes. We broke off our engagement shortly after- an unfortunate thing since we had both agreed to be at Minister Wi’s mansion, and it was fairly-known that we had been together.”

“So that’s why you gave him the cold shoulder,” murmured Myrie. “No wonder you were so mad at him.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s normal for one to fail to see the signs of infidelity. It still hurts,” she mused, fingers lightly tracing around her heart. “But it has been enough time for me to move on by now. And that brings us to the present.”

 

“The plan is simple enough,” continued the elementalist, nodding towards the other women. “Myrie, you’ll be in the shadows, acting as a lookout-“

“Now hold on,” the thief cut in shortly, crossing her arms, “I never really said I was in, did I?”

“No, but you had asked what the job was. Curiosity, I have learned, usually warrants some sort of committal.”

Myrie’s jaw shifted slightly. “I suppose you’re right. Anyhow. I’m in the shadows…”

“Correct. You are to send off a shot in case there are any other ‘messengers’ who are attempting an ambush. In the situation where we are revealed, you are to see if you can find Captain Thackeray and warn him of the hostiles.”

“And whatt’er me?” the sylvari asked, jabbing a thumb onto her leafy breastplate. She winced, shaking out the sore appendage, and popped it in her mouth.

“You could hide in the trees!” Myrie snickered. The warrior shot her a lethal glare. “Kidding, kidding,” she quickly stated, hands up in surrender.

“Sylfia, I think it would be best if you did try to make yourself scarce. Obviously the shadows won’t be your friend, so I recommend trying to look nonchalant. Fit in, if you can.”

“Where are ya’ meeting these louts, again?” she asked, scratching behind a branched ear. Myrie was struggling with increasing futility to not stare at the strange plant-woman; how on earth were they so human, yet so alien?

“Yer starin’ dearie,” the fire-colored warrior smirked, casting a sharp glance at Myrie. “Not interested.”

The thief recoiled. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Pfah, you wish,” she snorted.

“The plan,” Selana continued icily, gluing her listeners’ tongues to their mouths, “seems fine to me. Any objections?”

Sylfia raised an orange-pulsing hand. “Not to be one to drag the party down or anyfing, but how do you suppose this-” she gestured to herself “- will blend in with you fleshies? I’m not exactly what you’d call blendin’ material.”

The elementalist paused, tapping a finger to her lips. Myrie was the one who came up with the idea: 

“You could be drunk!”

“Oi  _ like _  the way you think, shorty!” cheered the sylvari, clapping. “The more whiskey the bett-“

“You will only be  _ partially _  drunk if at all,” Selana cut in. “This mission is too important to be botched by a plant-woman who charges in before necessary. Any other questions? And, no, I am not buying you any whiskey.”

“Count it part o’ my pay,” the sylvari replied flatly, pale-green eyes narrowed to slits. “The way I’m seein’ it, you’ve got two glass cannons and no bunkah. Try as you might, should there be an ambush, I doubt you two’ll last terribly long.” She sat back triumphantly, crossing her ankles. Grinning dryly at their expressions of surprise, she continued, “Y e ah, don’ jus’ think I’m some drunken ‘ouseplant. I do have  _ some _  tactics up in this thick skull o’ mine.”

Selana’s own eyes narrowed fractionally, but as before, the sylvari seemed either impervious or nonchalant concerning more possible firebolts. Then, mouth twitching slightly, she replied, “Fine. Then all is settled?” She paused once more, waiting for any further questions or demands. Hearing none, she stood, slipping her walking staff onto her back. “Excellent. We haven’t much time left; let’s go.”


	17. Arc 2, Chapter 5

 

Meanwhile, under the disappearing fog of early morning, Gryphon Radwing and Logan Thackeray continued their journey to the house of Gryphon’s contact, eventually leading them to an old, opulent mansion.

The gardens that led to it were enclosed with a tall, wrought-iron fence, and elegant statues of fine marble quarried from the cliffs near Bloodtide Coast stared down their noses next to high, lush rosebushes and more exotic flowers. The mosiac path that led to the high, ivy-laced stone mansion itself was tastefully yet intricately arrayed with silver and gold accents, and the mahogany double-doors that rose to meet them were carved with scenes from Tyria's history and mythology.

“Is this the place?” asked the captain.  He looked skeptically at the stately building. “Doesn’t seem too secret to me.” 

“That’s precisely what makes it such a good meeting place,” replied the mesmer with a small smile.  "No-one expects secrets to be so obviously hidden." He walked up to the knocker and gave a few taps on the door. After a few moments, a maid opened the door. 

“May I help you?” she asked politely. 

“Yes; we have a meeting with the lady of the house and her pet dog for tea,” answered the lord. The Seraph gave him an incredulous look for the half-second it took his brain to realize that the phrase was a passcode. The maid smiled, opening the door to admit them. 

“Welcome. Lady Istairiea will be with you shortly. Please wait in the main hall.” 

 

For such a regal facade, the interior was sparsely decorated. Though the items used accented the wealth and elegance of its owner, they did so in such a way that was not gaudy or haughty. The mesmer had seen plenty of ministerial homes where the occupants were fully aware of their excessive riches and made sure that everyone else knew it within the first two minutes of seeing their garishly-opulent houses. Here, though, the simple decorating bespoke a life of charity mixed with elegant comfort; there were no signs of prideful excess, and everything seemed to have a function, practical or not. The Seraph felt slightly out of place in his ornate armor, but he paused to look at the fireplace’s mantle, inspecting an emblem of another guild.  

“Friend of yours?” he asked, gesturing to the inscription, which stated her allegiance to the guild, Pious Knights. 

“Not directly,” he replied, stroking his goatee. “Although I’ve heard that her story is similar to Selana’s, the only contact I’ve had in the past with the lady of the house is in writing. The main reason I’m here is to speak with two others.” 

At that moment, another set of knocks was heard, announcing the arrival of the other contacts. One of them was a woman, fair blonde waves cascading lightly down her back and around her shoulders. The other, looking unusually haggard and uneasy, was Lord Faren. 

“What’s happened to her?” he asked, walking towards the long table in the room's center and taking a seat next to the mesmer.  He ran a hand through his hair. It must have started raining, for his leather jerkin was lightly sprinkled with water, and both his hair and those of the woman were wet. 

“You should know, of all people,” Gryphon replied tautly. Faren winced, and the Seraph had the distinct image of a schoolboy being reprimanded by his teacher. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, “but I had to know if her mind was really showing signs of recovery. She hasn’t been the same since –“ 

“I know she hasn’t.” The older lord’s eyes were once more steel-cold, and his usually-jolly smile was instead flattened into a taut line of anger. “And you know full well that it is for the good of Kryta that she isn’t.” 

“But is it so good now?” Faren cried, throwing his hands in the air. “It’s been almost twenty years, Lord Radwing, and with all due respect, I think that her psyche is more important than what some stuffy Minister says, conspiracy be-” 

“Hold your tongue,” came a feminine voice. Though the captain briefly wondered if it was the blonde woman who had spoke, this was not so. The speaker, a graceful noblewoman, entered from the hallway. Her dress was white and black, elegantly accented with blood-red rubies. All but Thackery, who looked around in mild confusion, stood and inclined their heads towards her.  Gryphon Radwing spoke first.

“Lady Yalora, I presume?” 

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” the elementalist replied, nodding slightly. Like Selana, her hair was a brilliant red color, though not as fiery, and her skin was as pale as cream; despite some differences in stature and face, the two had been mistaken for relatives more than once. One thing Selana did not know about her friend was that she was but one of a select few who were aware of and kept knowledge of her past hidden from her. For the first time in many years, that past was about to be brought back to light.

“It appears that we are all assembled,” Yalora stated, seating herself at the head of the table.  The others soon returned to their seats; Captain Thackeray stood awkwardly until a servant held out a chair for him, which he accepted with a quiet thanks. “Now, what is the reason for your call, Lord Radwing?” 

“As you are aware, there are certain memories that Selana has had repressed for almost twenty years. This was under order of the Shining Blade, and, by extension, the Queen herself. It was for the sanctity of the crown and Kryta that these decisions were made, and little regard was made on the part of the child at the time. However, even a skilled mesmer such as myself may have difficulty in suppressing natural memories, especially ones which are as potent as what lie hidden behind her mind’s walls. Over the past several months, I and other members of the Order of Whispers have noticed that some of the walls which were protecting her mind have begun to deteriorate, despite constant reinforcement. If she is to find out what has been hidden, the repercussions may be dire.” He steepled his hands and rested his chin on them, staring grimly at his audience. “I, of course, speak not only for myself, but for the greater part of Tyria, as well.” 

Captain Thackeray gave him a skeptical look. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but what makes you think that the fate of one woman, noble or not, will change the fate of the world? It seems a bit over-dramatic, don’t you think?” 

“In this case, no,” Faren replied, glowering sullenly at him. The Seraph drew back slightly, brows furrowing helplessly.  

“Am I the only one who’s not sure of what’s going on here?” 

“Excuse me,” the blonde interjected gently, raising a hand, “Lady Kasmeer speaking. Sir, I honestly don’t know why you are here, but rest assured that we will bring you up to speed in due time- provided, of course, that the Queen gives her permission to release the information.” 

The captain bristled. “I am her first-in-command for the Seraph, her largest and most loyal force. If there was something this important-” 

“-Then the Queen would be very cautious with whom the information was entrusted,” Yalora finished coolly. “With all due respect, sir, remember who the Queen’s bodyguard is. You know of the Countess's prowess in the mesmeric arts. She is better at concealing her emotions than you are, and quite frankly, I am not certain that many citizens would be comfortable with learning the information which you might hear tonight."


	18. Arc 2, Chapter 6

 She was shadow, a thought flitting from rooftop to lamp-post. Barely seen by those still awake, her silhouette was easy to dismiss as naught but a figment of drowsy imagination. Times like these made her think of the old days when she had discovered her prowess with blade and bow, making sure that all who oppressed the weak knew of her tale. Though she stepped lightly from place to place, following Selana’s flaming head as she walked below, her heart was twisted with pain. Myrie hadn’t had a proper swing around the town since she had left Rurikstead, leaving her former second-in-command, Two-Blade Pete, in charge. His death had cost the life of her most trusted companion, her childhood friend and too-late love, Quinn. 

He would love this, she thought, relishing the sting of night air on her face as she slung her body to behind one final corner. Landing gracefully, she looked for the other woman in her impromptu party. It took a while, but she soon was able to spot the faintly-glowing sylvari woman, staggering drunkenly under a ragged cloak towards a wall, where she sank with a heavy slump onto the ground. Either her acting skills were greater than she gave credit, or the warrior had already made use of her payment of Blood Legion whiskey. Her slurred, incoherent mumbling seemed to indicate the latter. Myrie grimaced.  _“I just hope that overgrown salad doesn’t get us killed,”_  she prayed. It struck her as greatly amusing that her parents once told her that her life was blessed by the goddess of truth, Kormir the Blind. Perhaps there was honor among thieves, though; why else would she be helping a woman of uncertain sanity to recover snatches of what could very easily be nothing but dust and echoes? 

At that moment, Selana stopped her stride. Her eyes flicked to the locations of her hidden companions. Myrie gave her a nod; she was ready. She couldn’t see what signal the sylvari gave, but the flicker of frustration on Selana’s face indicated that it was either ignored or improper. It was time. 

“Come out; I am alone,” the elementalist said.  In the emptiness of the courtyard, her voice echoed and carried more than Myrie would have thought possible. A thin corona of flame circled her wrists. If her informants had plans on harming her, they wouldn’t leave without some scars to identify them.  

They strode from the Dwayna High Road to the central plaza, not bothering to cover their faces or make any attempts at hiding their progress. One flag given- if their information was so important, wouldn’t they be more cautious? Selana tapped her forefinger lightly against her skirt; to the group approaching, it could easily have been mistaken for impatience or fidgetiness. Myrie knew better and strung her bow in anticipation, sliding an arrow onto the string. 

“Do you have proof of your identity?” the man at the group's front asked, face illuminated by the ghostly glow of the moon. 

“I do,” Selana replied. She fished her necklace from her collarbone and showed its broken pendant. The man across from her was dressed like a noble, though she didn’t recognize his face. His eyes widened fractionally- flag two; surprise instead of greedy anticipation should have been what she saw. Her left hand moved to unsheathe her staff. In the faint, flame-lit corner, Sylfia’s fumbling fingers steadied on the grip of her longbow, and her hazy eyes cleared as she drew two arrows, nocking them. 

“Is that what you needed?” she asked, tone impassive as she slipped the pendant back below her collar. The man stroked his mustache and smiled, nodding.  

“Yes. And now our part of the bargain.” He waved one of his companions forward, and she extended a rolled-up parchment to her. “We have a message from your parents.” 

  

 

“What you will learn tonight is to be kept secret, and it is of utmost importance that nothing be breathed of it outside these walls.” Gryphon placed an ominous lavender disk on the center of the table. It was shot through with pulsing, neon magenta veins of ancient magic, and it radiated torment. Everyone sitting at the table instinctively flinched away from it. Even Captain Thackeray had to stifle a horrified shout at its malicious presence. 

“This is an ancient Mursaat token, given to me from my namesake - my ancestor. As you have no doubt noticed,” Gryphon explained with a humorless grin, “it is still very much imbued with resonating Agony. Anyone who touches it is subject to its influence. Even though I can control it, because the current enchantments are not as potent as what was required in the past, I am not immune to its effects. It is, in essence, the perfect seal of trust.” He picked it up again, grasping it firmly until his knuckles were whitened from the pressure. He suddenly hissed in pain, dropping it back onto the table with a sharp  _cling!_. A thin wisp of smoke rose lazily from the coin; Captain Thackeray’s stomach churned as its center deepened to an unmistakably blood-red hue. Gryphon passed the coin to Faren, who took it only after a slight hesitation. After undergoing the same event as the mesmer, he passed it on to Kasmeer, who then gave it to Yalora.  

“Perhaps we should leave him out of this,” she suggested, rubbing her sluggishly-pulsing hand firmly. “I doubt that the Queen would want her favorite captain to be muzzled by such ancient magics.” 

“She already knows of our meeting,” Faren replied, clenching and unclenching his fist. “Though I don’t think she approves, she said that she would leave the decision up to him.” 

“I want to know what’s going on here as much as anyone would,” the Seraph replied, steepling his hands and looking warily at the malicious token. “What I want to know is, will it help me to better protect Queen and country?” 

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Gryphon replied. “You must know this, though, Captain- should you partake in the pledge of the Token, you will be branded as one of our kind until this information has been decided as properly unsealed and safe. If you speak of what you learn to anyone outside of our group, even on accident, you will be wracked with agony. Remember what happened to Myrie when we first found and destroyed that Mursaat Quinn found in your headquarters?” 

Thackeray shuddered. “I wish I could forget. I thought she was dying.” 

“She was,” Kasmeer replied. “I’ve not seen Agony’s effects firsthand, but suffice it to say, if she had not been protected and healed by Gryphon, it’s pretty unlikely that she would be as hale and hearty as reports make her to be. Mental disintegration at any level is torturous, and the Mursaat had perfected it.” 

He swallowed, glancing back at the ominous coin. It seemed to blink hungrily, lazily at him; it reminded him of a large drake, waiting patiently for unsuspecting prey to wander into its open jaws. Every fiber of his being screamed at an instinctual level to deny this burden of knowledge and flee the scene, to forget everything he had learned about this place and its people’s secrets. His mind, on the other hand, was desperate to know what the Queen had deemed so important that she would involve every level in which she had influence in order to keep it secret. Steeling his nerves and setting his jaw, the captain reached out to the Mursaat token and gripped it in his gauntleted hand. 

“Guess I’m in.” 


	19. Arc 2, Chapter 7

 Selana looked at the extended paper with a mixture of suspicion and anticipation. If this was truly a letter from her parents, who knew what it contained? Details of their experiences in centaur territory? Maybe they had known if or when they were to die and decided to send out their missive only after their death. Could it be a note detailing where they currently were? Her hands trembled as she slowly reached toward it. 

“Wait.” She paused, glancing irately at the informant.  He crossed his arms. “We first have another message to tell.” 

“Please, can it wait until I've at least read what they've sent? I’ve not heard from my parents for years; I can hardly remember them.  This is important,” she begged, gritting her teeth in frustration.  

“Surely you can wait but a few seconds more,” he smiled, a sinister glint flashing in his eyes. Myrie’s hackles raised, but she did not yet loose her arrows. Selana was not yet in danger, but the eerie grin that she saw flickering on the contact's face in the moonlight was not reassuring. She cast a glance towards the inebriated sylvari, who was grimacing either from her drink or from her own unease.  

“Very well,” the elementalist replied tautly. “But please, make it quick.” 

 

“Selana’s parents, Arcon and Deirdre, were soldiers who fought in the Centaur War,” Gryphon stated, leaning back in his chair. “After the battle was over and the humans had reclaimed the contested area, they returned to Divinity’s Reach. Aside from being Seraph, they were also members of the Shining Blade. Selana Firestone the First, matriarch of House Firestone, was one of the members who helped Queen Salma regain her throne after the Guild Wars more than 200 years ago..” 

“You mean-?” Faren nearly choked on his wine. 

The mesmer nodded. “Yes. Gryphon Radwing, my ancestor, fought side-by-side with Selana’s ancestor, _her_ namesake. Our families were bound by this event and the guard they formed. In fact, there is another family in this town who is linked to it, but that is another tale. As I am sure you know, the Shining Blade are not only the Queen’s protectors, but they are also used to find and exterminate pockets of White Mantle cultists, who foolishly worship the Mursaat as gods.” 

“The Unseen ones,” Logan murmured, brows furrowing. “I’ve met one before.  I'm pretty sure it was weakened, though.” 

Gryphon nodded. “The Firestones were quite talented throughout history at rooting out these gatherings, and they had gained a reputation among Shining Blade and White Mantle alike. After the war, Selana's parents were given permission to leave so that they could focus on raising Selana. She was six years old by the time they returned from duty, and they were determined to give her the best education and life which they could offer. Shortly after their return to domestic life, Deirdre began feeling suspicious that they were being watched. Arcon had full confidence in her concerns and decided to post guards around their house, becoming even more protective of his wife and daughter- especially after learning that Deirdre was pregnant. Selana was thrilled at the idea of becoming a big sister and eagerly looked forward to the infant’s arrival.  

Though Deirdre’s pregnancy and birth went well, the newborn fell suddenly and deathly ill. Selana did not understand what was happening to her baby sister, and was very distressed at her failing health. Deirdre, desperate to see her child- who she viewed as a symbol of hope in their new lives- brought the infant to the priests to see if there was anything they could do. Arcon and Selana followed, supporting her and taking turns holding the feverish baby. When they arrived, a priest of Grenth informed them that their daughter had been cursed; the child’s life would slowly fade from her body in a matter of days. A priestess of Lyssa revealed that someone had cast a symbol into the young flesh - a message of revenge from White Mantle survivors.” 

“What… what happened to her?” Kasmeer stammered, knuckles white around her goblet. For a moment, Gryphon was silent.

“After consulting with all of the priests to see if there was a cure which might dispel the curse," he said slowly, "they came to the conclusion that they would need to seek a drastic alternative. A priest of Melandru told them of a distant tree which could supposedly save their daughter at the price of her losing her body. This tree had recently borne fruit of the most unusual kind- the sylvari.” 

 

“Your parents would be very proud of you,” the informant sighed, fingers drumming on his scroll. “In fact, this message is as much for you as them.” Before she could react, his hand swept toward a dagger he kept sheathed in his belt, and he lunged toward Selana, casting aside the parchment.  

“Glory to the Mantle, and death to the heretics!” 

Selana’s eyes flew open in shock, and though she stepped back to avoid the dagger diving towards her chest, she knew as soon as her attacker leapt forward that she would have no time to dodge. She wondered who she would see waiting for her in the Mists.  

 _PING!_  The steel rang out sharply as it flew from the “informant’s” hand. He let out a yowl of pain and frustration as he stumbled towards the ground. Myrie grinned dryly, nocking another arrow onto her bow. 

“Can’t die so easily on us, Fire-head! Keep your guard up! We’ve got your back.”  

Selana gave a slight smile in reply, arcing her hand out in a deadly curve of fire. Her combatant skittered back on the loose pebbles, pointing furiously at her and shouting, “Kill her! Kill her now before the guards notice!” 

“Oi, you think yer lazy oafs can getter’ way with murder?” Sylfia gave a savage snarl of glee and cast off her cloak, pouncing upon the shocked attackers. Howls of terror erupted from their mouths as her face, devilish in the light of the moon and her own luminescence, filled their faces. 

“It’s after me- it’s going to-!” The horrified screams were interrupted with an abrupt, pasty  _crunch_ and the weight of Ascalonian stone. The sylvari threw back her head and gave a feral roar.  

“Stand and fight, you bleedin’ cowa’ds!” she raged, raising her hammer high and leaping towards some other hapless foe. Selana let loose a bolt of fire, melting the flesh from one of the attacking women’s faces. Her shrieks of pain and rage were stopped by an emerald-flecked shadow- Myrie’s deadly dagger danced among the ambushers, and she was a shadow-plague among them. 

“Hey, Flamey-locks! Bit of help?” she cried hoarsely, grunting in pain as a hammer thudded dully on her armor. Selana’s eyes flashed with recognition, and she flung her hand skyward, summoning a healing cloud of mystic rain overhead. 

“Ah, that’s refreshing,” Myrie sighed blissfully, pausing to bash a charging warrior in the skull with her dagger-hilt. “But do you think we could finish this up?” 

“Certainly,” the elementalist replied, dodging the main speaker’s blow and leaving behind a scorching trail of flames. “Just let me finish catching this son of a skritt.” 

 

“What on earth are you talking about? The Pale Tree?” Captain Thackeray’s head spun. “But… why on earth is there no documentation of this meeting? Surely something so historic would surely be written down!” 

“Yes, I am speaking of the Pale Tree. The Queen ordered that the meeting be kept private when she approved of its passing; too many would have considered it heretical or unnatural of them to ask for her to save their daughter, and the young family needed no further worries.  

The sylvari were a new race, but we had already established that those in their capital were non-hostile, even friendly. Deirdre was desperate for any chance that her baby could receive and was prepared for any shock which could be encountered. Selana, on the other hand, was becoming increasingly withdrawn and frightened. Children are much more perceptive than we give them credit; she knew that something was wrong with her sister even if she didn’t fully understand the reasons or how they were affecting her. All she knew was that her happy, laughing little sibling had become sickly, weak, and pale in the shadow of this unknown affliction. Even though her servants and family tried to reassure her that her sister would be well, young Selana saw through their hopeful lies. She was as desperate as her parents to see her sister made well, but she didn’t know that the Pale Tree’s solution would be as radical as it was. The Firestones traveled as quickly as they could through the asura gates from Divinity’s Reach to the Grove, the home-city of the sylvan race.  

By now, other member of the nobility had heard rumors of what was to happen; none of them were accurate, and none of those who heard it were willing to offer help or seek the truth. The rumor in the Reach was that this family, desperate to break a curse on their household, was going to some twisted vision of Melandru to sacrifice their sick daughter. The truth, however, was different. The Pale Tree had offered a risky solution to break the curse.  Lyssan priests had speculated that the mesmeric arts could transfer the baby’s mind into the Dream, which holds the collective and individual sylvari conscious before they emerge into their bodies, possibly allowing her to be reborn as one of their kind.” 

The only sounds in the room came from the flickering snap of candle-flames and soft breaths of those who had only just remembered their importance. 

Gryphon ran a shaky hand over his face. “I was there when they started the ritual.” 

 

Selana was like a firestorm unleashed, fury coursing hot through her veins. She reached down and grabbed the lead informant's collar, hoisting him to her eye level and skewering him with her gaze. Sparks of lightning and flame snapped off of her skin. 

“Who sent you?” she asked calmly. Her breath was like a dragon’s, and the squirming man’s face broke into a heavy sweat at its heat.  

“I won’t tell you,” he hissed, clawing at his throat. “Your entire line deserves to be purged for its destruction.” 

“Look at me!” she snarled, bringing his face closer to hers. A whimper escaped his blanched lips. “Do you see me? I,  _I_  am the last of House Firestone- I am all that is left of a once-proud legacy! Why else would you bother with me unless my parents are dead?” 

The man let out a nervous giggle. “Finally figured it out, witch? They died horrifically, you know. Begging for their lives. So pathetic…” 

The elementalist dropped him in disgust, stomach roiling. “No,” she whispered angrily, fists clenched in defiant rage, “they wouldn’t die like that. They were always…” Her head started to pound, and she leaned heavily against a pillar, breathing unsteadily. She shook her head, vision swimming.  “Sylfia, please stop digging through those corpses’ pockets and hold this man still. Feel free to use any force necessary to keep him in pl-“ 

A wet, sharp  _crack_  answered her unfinished sentence. Myrie’s eyes flew towards the warrior, who casually crossed her legs and was using the Mantle as a screaming footstool.  One of his legs was clearly broken. She bit off and spat out the cork to another cache of wine she had found.  

“Wot? He’s not goin’ anywhere,” she stated defensively, chugging heartily from her bottle. She gestured towards the bloodstained, slightly-ragged parchment. “Aren’t ya’ gonna read that? Even if it is bait, it might be useful,” she remarked between swigs, her orange pulse deepening. “Per’aps it’ll clear yer mind or sommat.” She shrugged, leaning back and fiercely nudging her footstool with steel-shod heels when he tried moving. “Oi, I jus’ got comfort’ible. Stay in place, rotter.” 

Selana swallowed the bile which had been rising in her throat. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said quaveringly. She reached down to pick up the note. Though it had been trampled underfoot, stained with fresh blood, and teased by the wind and dust, the parchment was still miraculously-legible. She was very still as she looked at it. 

“I’ll see if I can get any answers out of this lout- see if I can find out who his higher-ups are,” Myrie muttered, casting a concerned look towards Selana. “You need to be able to read this with your head clear.” Although she would have never admitted it, seeing the normally-calm elementalist so greatly shaken worried her. She rubbed the ring below her collarbone, once more feeling a calm coolness wash over her, and stepped towards the prostrate agent. Kneeling by his face, she sighed and looked him in the eye, speaking so that Selana was unable to hear her.  

“All right, you. Let me say that although the sylvari has incapacitated you, I can assure you that she’s been restraining yourself for the sake of the highborn. I will give her full permission to test her hammer on your fingers one by one until we get some answers as to who sent you and why. If, after all of your phalanges have been pulped, you are still unwilling to speak, I will begin using you as a test dummy for my pistol practice.” She stood and loaded her pistol with slow deliberation.  “So. Let’s talk.” 

 

Gryphon sat back in his chair, eyes half-lidded as he continued.  
  “We were taken into city's the upper bower, where the Pale Tree’s avatar had manifested itself. She did what she could to calm the Firestones and explained that the process was likely to succeed, since the infant’s mind was clear of any major memories. The Dream would cradle her consciousness, developing it and allowing her to emerge as a sylvari when she had reached the proper age. However, the Tree stated that it was very likely she would be uncomfortable in her skin of leaves and vines; her basic mind would still wish for its human flesh. What memories she did have would be suppressed; it was unlikely that she would remember her human family until much later, if at all. Even with these risks, the Firestones were still willing to proceed. I went forward with them as they brought the feverish, sleeping infant toward her. Selana wanted to go with her.  She had to be held back to keep from following her and her parents.” 

“She was only a child,” Faren whispered. “She wanted to be by her family.  She wanted comfort!” 

“Yes.  She wanted everything to be better, but she didn't understand anything that was going on.  She was increasingly hysterical, and when the sleeping baby began to be covered by the Tree’s vines, she had to be removed even further from her sister.” The mesmer’s voice cracked, and he took a shuddering breath. “Do you have any idea how it felt? Telling such a small child that her sister would be fine, even as she seemed to be covered with the roots of the grave? The effects of being away from her parents for so much of their service, of seeing her newborn sister taken from her and dying so soon, of feeling her happiness and joy become shuttered beneath the shadow of things which she did not understand- her mind was nearly broken, as young as she was. Even as her sister’s mind was being prepared and eased into the Dream, her own required immediate attention. Countess Anise focused on-” 

“Wait, you never mentioned Countess Anise being there,” Kasmeer gave a nervous hiccup. “She was there, too?” 

“Yes; if you recall, her parents were high-ranking members of the Shining Blade. The countess had a high respect for them, even if she didn’t know them personally. So when the Queen sent out a secret missive asking for trustworthy, skilled mesmers to aid in this mission, she volunteered her skills. I doubt that the ritual would have progressed as well as it did without her assistance. But Selana was not calm; she was hysterical, and Anise pointed out that her mind would need immediate attention if she was to have a possibility of being able to live normally later on. As with her sister, I was charged with suppressing the recent memories to reduce the strain and stress of the past, theoretically allowing her to carry on with little negative impact. 

Faren snorted derisively. “And that worked well, didn’t it? She completely forgot those years of her life. She forgot about her sister, her friendship with me-” 

“Faren, enough,” Yalora reprimanded, fingers splaying on her table. “I understand that you are emotionally-invested in this, but I must remind you that you are not the only one who was affected by these decisions. Gryphon, if you are willing to continue?” 

“Thank you, Yalora.” The mesmer took a long drink from his goblet. “Faren, you know that she remembered at least part of her friendship with you; you were both able to build it back up from what little she remembered. In fact, if you had not tried to get Kasmeer to divulge Selana's progress, it is more than likely that she would not have broken off your recent engagement.” 

“But it’s _because_ of her suppression that she acted the way she did! Surely she would know that I had no intention of straying from her if she was able to fully remember what happened instead being forced to live with what gaps are left in her mind.” 

Gryphon pierced the lord with another frustrated glare. “Faren, consider the fact that only recently you were considered a shameless skirt-chaser. With your past, it would be easy for anyone to think you had taken on a lover.” 

Kasmeer huffed irately. “People are entirely too quick to make judgments.” 

“No, she…” the young lord swallowed, grimacing. “She made a reasonable decision. I suppose if I were in her shoes, I would have thought the same thing. I just ... I worry for her.” 

“We all do. And that is precisely why she cannot leave her manor until this has been resolved.” 

“What’s our next course of action, then?” Faren asked impatiently. “I know I’ve messed up before, but I still need to know what the state of Selana’s mind is. You can’t possibly continue with these…” He gestured with a frustrated hand. “These  _treatments_  forever. You’ve already said that her mind is starting to build a resistance to them, and that she seems to be starting to show signs of strains because of them. I know you were trying to do what you thought would be most beneficial, but that was then. Surely she would be able to better process and think through the trauma now.” 

“Perhaps, but the possibility still remains that her mind would shatter due to the sudden information overload. We must be caref-“ 

“I’m tired of being careful, confound it all and Ministry be hanged! If their dirty laundry gets aired in the process, then so be it! We are allowing an innocent woman to live with a caged mind. Is that really less important than the secrets of some stuffed shirts up in Ministry? Perhaps this is a good thing! Maybe we’ll even oust some of the more corrupt folk in high places.” 

Captain Thackeray’s head was once more spinning wildly, and, not for the first time that night, he wondered why he had agreed to participate in this madness. “You never mentioned anyone in the Ministry! Why on earth- oh, don’t tell me….” 

“We have ample reason to believe that at least one or more Ministers are in connection with the same Mantle operation which led to the curse on Selana’s sister. However, the lack of any concrete knowledge has prevented a firm case with which we could legally accuse and remove him from his position of power.” A thoughtful look entered Gryphon’s eyes. “Actually, your position could make this little mystery of ours a bit easier to solve. Have you ever been led to conduct any investigations on any of the Ministers? Do any of them strike any warning bells?” 

Realization swept over Thackeray's face. “Yes, actually. Now that you mention it, Minister Caudecus has been spreading dissent against the Queen again. He's been railing against her since her ascent to the crown.   I wouldn't put it past him to get in touch with the Mantle to bring her down. If she can’t protect one of the oldest families in the Reach, how can it be expected that she can care for her people in more distant lands?” He slammed a frustrated fist on the table, earning a brief, freezing glare from Yalora. “Grenth take him, it makes too much sense. I’ll assign a security detail to him tomorrow and see if they can find anything.” 

“But what of the Ministry Guard?” Kasmeer protested. “You must know that with your position, any attacks on Caudecus will be seen as nothing more than an overprotective assault on behalf of the Queen. That would be bad publicity for both you and her, and it would lend credence to his arguments.” 

“And we definitely don’t want that,” muttered Gryphon, lacing his fingers together thoughtfully. 

An uneasy silence dominated the meeting. Finally, punctuated by a dry chuckle, Faren remarked, “You know, wouldn’t it be funny if she discovered all of this by herself?” 

 

 

It only took two fingers for the man to break. Whimpering with pain, he quickly stammered out what he thought the madwoman and the crazy tree wanted to hear before subsiding into tears.  

“Please, no more,” he hiccuped, inserting the bloodied, bruised appendages into his mouth. “I’ve told you what you wanted- just… just let me go! The pendant is genuine!” 

Selana walked from across the courtyard and rejoined the sylvari and the thief. “The letter claims that my parents are currently being held captive near some of the ruins in Nebo Terrace. Should this be true, I may be able to…” Her vision swam, and a dull pulse throbbed through her head. 

“Oi, fleshy, you aw’right?” The pale green eyes were narrowed into slits. “Do ‘umans normally do that?” 

“The swaying, face-holding thing? Nope. Hang on, there, Selana, let’s not crush your short friend by falling on her, yeah? Oh, and Sylfia, if you could call the guard and let them know that a Mantle cultist was recently found trying to assassinate Lady Firestone, that would be perfect.” 

“You really think they’d listen to a talking tree,” came the skeptical reply.  

“A talking,  _drunken_  tree, and yes. They’ve had to listen to gate-keepers state even more improbable and dangerous things, so you’re probably not the most odd of complainers.” As she spoke, the pale elementalist slumped onto a courtyard bench, resting clammy, trembling hands on her lap. Myrie cast a nervous look at the woman as she sat next to her, noticing that, despite the darkness of early morning, Selana’s pupils were constricted into pinpricks. Something wasn’t right.  

“Might want to try finding a priest of Dwayna afterward, if you can,” Myrie muttered, trying to stabilize the tall redhead without being squished. “I think Selana may have incurred a head wound.” 

Perhaps responding to her name, the elementalist’s eyes closed briefly; pausing to open them as if in a dream, her hazy gaze narrowed with drowsy confusion and frustration. 

“I can’t see you,” she whispered. “Where have you gone?” Then, just as abruptly as she had spoken, the woman relinquished her remaining consciousness and slumped against the thief, mouth slightly ajar and breathing shallow.

A stab of fear slugged Myrie in the stomach.  For a woman who had very few family members or close ones remaining, to lose one more person, even with such a tenuous friendship, would be too much for such a short period. There had been too much pain in her life already. 

“Hurry up, you bleeding cabbage,” she whispered fiercely, struggling to keep herself from being toppled by the leaning elementalist’s weight. 

  


	20. Arc 2, Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selana's suppressed memories begin to rise; Gryphon offers the services of a dangerous ally.

 Selana  was walking through a swirling haze of mist, unable to see more than a few feet in front of her. Though the abstract shapes and uncertain noises seemed oddly familiar, something deep within her told her that something was very, very wrong.

“Hello?” She cautiously stepped forward. From a distance, a soft sob reached her ears. A spike of fear jolted through her. “Who's there?  Are you all right?” she asked, walking more quickly in the direction of the child’s cry.

“Mommy?” came the tremulous sniffle. “Mommy, where are you?” 

“I’m not your mommy,” the elementalist said soothingly, reaching her hands out and to push back the more solid banks of cloud that appeared as she tried to follow her. “Hold on; I'll come find you."

“Where are you and Daddy going?” the child cried. “Take me with you!”

“Wait!” The child's shouts grew fainter, quick steps fading as she ran away. “Let me help you!” Selana looked down at her feet in shock, where slashes of violet electricity were binding her in place. A thick cloud of ominous mist began roiling slowly towards her.  Despite her efforts to run, she was unable to move.

“Come back!” she shouted desperately, fear starting to cloud her voice as she strained against her bonds. “If I can’t help you, then please help me! Please!”

Her pleas faded into the thick fog, leaving only the sounds of her voice and the fleeing child echoing in her mind.

 

She sat up with a sudden gasp and a groan. “Oh…” she moaned, rubbing her head. 

“Hey,” came a strained laugh. “You’re up.” Myrie’s brown head dipped into her field of vision, a worried smile on her face. “We thought you might not make it.”

“We?”

Gryphon Radwing walked into the room- she appeared to be in a temple or hospital of sorts. “Thank the gods,” he sighed, walking to her side and giving her a slight hug. “How are you feeling?”

“As though I’ve had a steel spike driven through my entire head,” she replied.  She groaned and squinted her eyes shut. “Could you please close the window?” 

“Too bright?”

“Yes. What happened?” She peered around the room, confusion muddling her vision. “Where’s Sylfia?”

Myrie gestured towards the shuttered window. “Probably out getting roaringly drunk again. She claimed that her adrenaline burned off what she had consumed before and during the fight, and that you owed her for saving your life.”

“ _Both_ of you saved my life,” she replied, arching an eyebrow. “I don’t see you running off and drinking.”

The thief gave a short bark of laughter. “Call it nobility if you must. Your face was pretty funny, though.” She gave a slack-jawed imitation. Returning to her usual appearance, she gave a smirk. “Don’t think I’d leave that for a moment.”

“Careful now,” came a familiar voice. Selana slid her gaze over to the foot of her bed, where an unnoticed Lord Faren sat on a stool. “She might take that the wrong way.” He gave a weak grin, which she returned with a grimace.

“I didn’t expect you to be here,” she remarked.  She wasn't able to disguise the note of irritation in the statement. Returning to the mesmer, she continued, “Why are you-?”

“Myrie told us what happened,” Gryphon replied sourly. “What on earth made you think that you could take on the White Mantle by yourself?”

“I brought backup, but I didn’t know it would be the Mantle,” she replied defensively. “Or that there would be an ambush. Why on earth they would target me is… oh.” Her eyes widened. “Myrie, where’s the parchment?”

“Last I knew, you’re the one who had it, Flamey-locks,” came the casual reply. The sound of streaming water and the smell of herbs alerted her to the presence of a steaming cup of tea. She accepted it with only the slightest amount of hesitation.

“What? Don’t forget that I was once a noblewoman. I know how to brew a decent cup of tea, still,” Myrie smirked. Then, puckering her lips in confusion, she added, “Never could figure out the way silverware was arranged, though.” She sat down again. “What happened to you? One second, you were roasting the laggards with the best of us, the next you were swaying like …”

“Like Sylfia?” a light smile played across her lips. Myrie laughed again.

“Yeah, like her. Drunken tree’s probably still-”

The door was suddenly and violently swung open. “Oi…. ‘ave nowt been  _ this _  drunk since…” A slurred hiccup interrupted the warrior’s reminiscing. 

“Will you be quiet!” Faren hissed. “Selana’s still trying to recover from … well, whatever the priest said happened.”

“An acute psychic attack,” Gryphon replied.  His was the only voice that carried calmly in the chaos. “She seems to be suffering from some sort of Spectral Agony which is very similar to what has been documented in the days of Queen Salma the First. Until now, Myrie was the closest I’ve seen it happen, but Selana's was without a doubt the most severe that's been noted in recent times. She might have survived a few days without treatment, but the priest says that it was fortunate that you alerted her when you did. Any longer and the damage it wreaked could have been permanent.”

“What triggered it?”

The sylvari shrugged. “H’all I know izzat one moment you were starin’ at that parchment o’ yours, and the next, you turn’d really pale and kind'a  collapsed on Myrie. Whatever was on it must’ve been sommat else.” 

“I’m sure,” Myrie replied. “And while I and she are eternally grateful for your invaluable assistance, could you please step back? My eyes are watering.”

The sylvari gave an exaggerated shrug but complied, nearly stomping on Lord Faren’s shoe. “Watch it!” he yelped, yanking his feet back.

“I can’t stop searching, though,” Selana muttered.  She leaned back on her pillow. “Whatever information the White Mantle know, they don’t want me to discover it. And now that I know where they’re hiding my parents, I can go help them. One I free them, I’m sure they’ll be able to explain everything. Perhaps they could help me with these strange lapses in memory I get.”

Myrie and Sylfia smiled encouragingly at her, but one thing that the inebriated warrior noticed was an uneasy glance between the two lords. Her pale eyes narrowed, and though she dismissed  it temporarily, she decided to think on the it later. Something, she thought through her wine-soaked haze, was most certainly up.

“Well, it’s obvious that you’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” Myrie told Selana as she leaned casually against the shuttered window. “And this problem probably isn’t going to disappear. If the Mantle have targeted you and are desperate enough to attempt an assassination in a fairly open area, then it stands to reason that they’ll do so again.”

“Captain Thackeray has already been notified of the situation,” Lord Faren replied, looking up from his laced fingers. “And I’ve offered a reward to anyone who sees anything indicative of a Mantle plot or group.”

“Well, that’s all well an’ good,” came the sylvari’s voice, “but what if your incentive goes a bit overboard? If erryone gets suspicious and jumpy, stan’s to reason that people will start gettin’ a bit more… violent.” She grimaced, swallowed, and continued. “Think of it this way. I know it works diff’rently with you humans, but I’ve seen similar things ‘appen in the Grove. Sylvari who’ve experienced trauma at the ‘ands of the Nightmare Court are often quick to point the finger at their neighbor should they do somethin’ even  _ slightly _  suspect. If the situation’s not quickly diffused…” she mimicked an explosion with her hands. “So we’s got to be careful lest we want chaos to rule ‘ere. That’s what they want, anyhow. A people divided are more likely to attack each other than the true foe.”

“But how should we proceed?” Faren huffed frustratedly, glowering at the tree-woman. “Surely you’re not recommending we just sit here and wait for someone to say, ‘Hello, I’m a Mantle and I’m here to kill you for the Unseen Ones!’?”

“I didn’t say that,” she growled, her orange glow pulsing in the setting sun. “Simply sittin’ ‘round does no good. What I recommend is moderation. Don’ let yer feelings cloud yer judgement. Keep a clear head- and I want no comments about my sobriety. I’ve out-thought norn drunker than this and whomped ‘em in fights more harrowing.”

“Yeah, but these aren’t norn, and they’re most certainly not drunk,” Myrie replied, frowning. “What we’re dealing with are pocket groups of Mantle who are highly-organized, intelligent, and adaptable.”

“Not to mention well-funded,” muttered the warrior. “I’m still frustrated that that fellow didn’t know the name of his provider. You’d think after-”

Myrie’s eyes widened, and she made a quick cutting motion to her throat.  _ She doesn’t know, _  she mouthed. The sylvari’s eyebrows rose, but she got the message and managed to turn her statement into an incoherent mumble. Gryphon had been quiet for a long while, lost in his thoughts. 

“The priest has given strict orders that you are not to move for at least three more days. If you experience any more unusual pains or headaches, let us know. It could be a sign that the Agony is deepening or that you’re undergoing a relapse.” He walked over and gently brushed her hair away from her eyes, giving her a stern yet concerned look. “Do you hear me? Don’t try to tough it out.”

“For our sake,” Faren smiled weakly. She shifted her gaze back to him. “I can’t exactly raid your pantries to provide a welcome-home feast if you’re not alive to enjoy it.”

Despite her irritation, the elementalist gave a small laugh. “Fair enough. But the parchment… my parents…”

“If you want, we’ll investigate it.”

“You don’t think it’s serious enough to warrant an investigation.” It wasn’t a question; despite her state, Selana was still remarkably astute. The mesmer sighed, standing and moving back towards the door. 

“I think that if someone is willing to use it against you, it is worth inspection. I don’t want you getting hurt over something that’s nothing more than wishful fantasies.”

She was silent.

After a moment, he continued. “If you would prefer to seek this out for yourself after you have recovered, feel free to do so. I will not intrude upon your journey. But,” he said, holding up a finger, “I request that you bring at least one more member alongside you for this expedition should you decide to go.”

“Who?”

“Another sylvari; a necromancer known as Nettle Viridia. She’s already been summoned here and is expected to arrive within a few days. Her skills in spectral sensitivity are very astute; nowhere near as renowned as the Firstborn, Trahearne, but she’s nonetheless quite good. If there is anything amiss about the letter, or if there are ghosts who might tell more to the story, she’ll help. But be warned; she is rather…eccentric.”

As she opened her mouth to ask what he meant, a low groan interrupted her question.

“Oh, no,” Sylfia moaned, knocking her head on the back of the wall in frustration. “No, no, no. You are  _ not _  referring to that  _ obsession _  of hers, are you?”

Gryphon’s eyes widened marginally. “You know her?”

A sneer spread across the sylvari’s face, twisting it into a terrifying mask. “Of course. Word tends to spread fast when you’re a blood-drinker.”


	21. Arc 2, Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The introduction of Nettle Viridia.

Lion’s Arch. What an unusual, bristling, bustling city. So full of life… and death. The pale, slender sylvari smiled, drawing a deep breath in through her nose and exhaling contentedly. The scent of seawater and rotting detritus near the outskirts of the city were only barely subdued by the smells of the inner hub. As she walked through the main plaza towards the asuran gates, she gingerly stepped over piles of rubbish, dodged screeching children, and ignored every single hawking merchant who begged for her coin. 

“Pretty lady!” 

_ Almost _  every merchant.

She looked back to see a hylek, hopping desperately after her and shaking a set of carved beads at her face. “Please, please look at these beads. Surely the sun god would be pleased if such a magnificent creature were to wear this necklace made in his honor! You are the only one whose frame and face would suit these so well. Just one try, and I’m sure…”

Her lips flattened in displeasure, and she sighed lightly. “I’m sure the sun god would prefer one who is a bit more colorful than I am, silly frog-man,” she replied, increasing her pace and walking briskly in the opposite direction. “Such as a sylvari who doesn’t look like a sun-deprived asparagus.”

“Oh, no, lady tree! You don’t look like such a poor, bland thing! Your hair is like the gentle green of pale jade, your eyes the same, yet sparkling with…”

She suddenly whipped around, bending down and smiling coldly at the frog’s quivering eyeballs. “Sparkling with what, exactly?” she asked. Her voice sent jagged tremors of fear down his tiny spine. “Tell you what,” she continued, not waiting for a reply. “I’ll give you an exchange- the necklace for a diagnosis.”

“A…what?” The hylek licked his lips nervously. Her smile widened.

“A diagnosis. Surely you’ve heard that diseases have been running rampant throughout the Arch as of late.” She tapped a pale, cool finger against his forehead. “Skritt, for example, can carry a form of rabies which affects your kind in an extremely terrible way. Do you know that it starts out with the simplest of symptoms? First, the infected hylek tend to experience a quicker rate of skin evaporation.”

The frog-man subconsciously itched at his arms, running his tongue over his lips again. 

“After that, they become increasingly-twitchy. When the twitchiness reaches its highest point, the next part of the disease, chills, comes into play. And when the chills-”

“Stop! Stop; please tell me what can be done. How can I be certain that I don’t have this disease?”

The sylvari straightened, her smile turning into one of angelic approval. “Meet me in about an hour in the upper level of the city. We can perform the test there.”

 

The sun had started its slow descent as the hylek made his way to the rocky cliff-side and up the rickety stairs to the bar, a former ship converted into a pub and anchored into the sheer stone. Like the rest of the city, the nautical atmosphere left the air with a slight salt tang which mixed with the smells of strong alcohol and cheap food. It made it easier to dismiss his nervous sweat as nothing more than the atmosphere. He sat at a table, ordered a glass of water- had his skin always been this  dry?-  and waited for the sylvari to appear. Soon enough, he spotted her gracefully striding toward him, nodding in recognition as she seated herself by him. Her skin glowed with a neon green luminescence, lighting her leafy hair and eyes with an unsettling glow. She signaled the barkeeper and ordered a rice wine, sipping delicately at it while watching the hylek with interest.

“Well?” she asked finally, pausing in her refreshment. “Do you have the necklace?”

Fingers fumbling with nerves, the frog-man pulled out the string of beads and set it on the table, sliding it towards her. “It is all yours,” he croaked, webbed fingers shaking. “Oh!” he gulped nervously. “Please hurry; I think the tremors are becoming more violent.”

“Patience,” she said, draining her glass with casual ease. She set the empty container on the table and reached towards him. “Your hand, please,” she purred, her calm voice soothing him. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” he burbled throatily. “Now, how can you tell if I have the disease?”

“Hm…” she sighed and tapped a finger on her pursed lips. “I’m not entirely sure you’ll like the idea. Some would prefer the risk to the treatment. But if you’re certain-“

“Please! I have tads at home,” he stuttered. “The sooner this is done, the sooner I can rest knowing that they are not at risk.”

Her lips curved into a smile. Such a pretty, innocent face, he thought, his breathing slowing. Her hypnotic eyes blinked lazily at him, focusing on his slick-skinned arm. 

“Reach out your hand, please,” she murmured, grabbing his wrist and flexing it, displaying its prominent veins. He winced slightly. 

“Please, pale one, hurry. My wife will be worried if I do not return.”

_ “Patience,” _  she said again, causing prickles of unease to rise on the back of his webbed feet. She removed a dagger from her belt and slid it along his wrist. A cry of surprised pain popped out of his mouth. “It’s all right,” she hushed, tipping his blue blood into a bowl which she had removed from her pack. Once it was two-thirds full, she released his arm, swirling the thick vitae and staring at it intently. 

“Well?” he asked, squeezing above the cut to staunch the flow. “What can you see?”

“Oh, it’s not what I see,” she replied with a dismissive glance. “The best place to obtain results is at my lab. This way,” she called, gliding towards the back of the room. He followed her mutely.  No one stood to block their path.

 

He followed the willowy woman through the door into a dimly-lit room filled with an assortment of magical and alchemical paraphernalia. As he glanced about it, his bulbous eyes caught sight of an ominous-looking splash on the floor. He gulped nervously.

“Ink spill,” she said casually, not bothering to turn from her desk in the back. She set the bowl of blood on the table behind her, walked back toward the door, and locked it. “Now that we’re in private, I can better perform the experiment.”

He knew better by now than to ask what her plan was and instead busied himself with arranging his spindly limbs on a short, splintery stool.

“Eat this, please. It should help with the blood flow,” she said, offering him a small bunch of lavender-colored flowers. He gulped them down, and watched with fascination as she flitted around the desk, pouring a small amount of his blood into a vial and mixing it with other compounds. Seemingly-satisfied at the result of the tincture, she set it down on the table next to several similarly-shaped vessels.

“I would like to thank you for your willingness to come here,” she smiled, sitting across from him. 

“Anything for my tads,” he replied, pulling on his collar. Was the air getting stuffier? “How soon can we expect the results? Is there a cure?”

She laughed, waving his concerns away, and reached back for the bowl which still contained a portion of his blood. Dipping her fingers into the thick liquid, she gave the dripping fluid a delicate sniff before deliberately licking it off of her skin. 

“Hmmmm."  She ran her pale-green tongue around her lips before she tipped the bowl back and drank the rest. She smacked her lips lightly, pursing them in concentration. The hylek had to resist every urge in his body to leap back in terror.

“What…why did you do that? Doesn’t what’s in the vial indicate if I have the disease or not?” he stammered in confusion.

She tapped a blue-stained finger on her pale lips. “No,” she replied simply. “That, my good frog, is an experiment. Thanks to you, I now have definitive proof that your blood provides an excellent binding ingredient for two otherwise-incompatible compounds. This is an amazing turning point in my studies,” she declared, grasping his hand firmly. 

“My disease! The rabies?” he asked pitifully. “I must know! Am I sick?”

The light of excitement slowly faded, as if realizing that she had left an important task unfinished. “Oh,” she smiled condescendingly as she released his hand, “I suppose I never told you the whole truth now, did I? You see, Mr. Hylek,” she said calmly, placing the empty, blue-stained bowl in front of him, “I have a bit of a problem. As I’m sure you are aware, I am a necromancer. My fascination with disease and the anatomy of Tyria’s creatures has led me all around the world for my studies. However, a good amount of 'professionals' I meet are firmly convinced that one illness is exactly the same as another, despite some slight yet important differences. How can I tell which is which?” Her smile widened, and in the flickering, dim light, the sight of his blood on her teeth nearly made him scream. “The same way in which I satisfy my curiosity as to how blood tastes. Yours in particular,” she continued blithely, watching as his movements slowed, “is particularly rich. A good amount of copper overtone, very healthy, but tinted with a slight bit of adrenaline. You may want to reduce your salt intake. Never a good thing when I can taste the fish you’ve  been eating. But altogether, you are quite delicious, well-fed, and with a healthy bit of life in your veins.” 

His jaw fell open. “You… you are a madwoman. Let me go!” With fumbling fingers, he reached his webbed hands toward the door. To his horror, his movements seemed slowed. His eyes glazed as the beautiful, deadly sylvari laughed again.

“Don’t you see? What you have done is an amazing sacrifice- truly fantastic! Your blood will save hundreds of asuran progeny from scalebane. Doesn’t that make you happy?” She smiled excitedly, bending down to stare into his bulging eyes. “I will be certain that your name is remembered in the annals of history. Science will never forget your contributions. Sadly, the best way for you to be truly immortalized is if you’re gone. But don’t worry! I won’t let a precious drop of your blood go to waste. You won’t even feel any pain.” She flipped through a calendar on her wall and beamed at him for the last time. “And I should be able to keep my appointment in Divinity’s Reach. But let’s finish your misery first, shall we?”


	22. Arc 2, Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylfia recalls her birth. Nettle disturbs everyone.

They had been waiting at the asura gate for the past half-hour and still had no sign of the necromancer’s arrival. Just as Myrie was about to abandon the group and head off in search of some plump noble’s valuables, a black-booted foot stepped out. The foot, of course, was followed by the rest of the sylvari. Her skin was a grayish-white, but her large eyes and bobbed, leafy hair  were  both a bright neon green. She reminded Myrie of a soft, gentle plant- perhaps a bean sprout- with wide, curious eyes and lightly-curved lips. Her form spoke of a lithe, gentle sensitivity, quite different from the sharp angles of Sylfia. Whereas the warrior looked as though she had been through a fire, the necromancer appeared to be as fair as a newborn. Even her voice, when she spoke, did not carry the rough, rasping accent of the warrior, but was instead soft and lightly lilting, as if humming to a song only she could hear.

“Lord Radwing, I presume?” she asked, stepping down the stairs and shaking the mesmer’s hand.

“Nettle Viridia,” he greeted, giving the cool hand a firm shake. “Excellent to meet you. I was beginning to think you didn’t plan on coming.”

She laughed- a clear, silvery sound that rang through the air. “What, and miss out on all of the fun? No, sir, I think not. I was merely delayed by a very important project.” Her gaze suddenly whipped from the mesmer to Myrie. Immediately the thief’s senses were on guard. 

“You’ve got quite the protective amulet,” she said slowly, stepping towards her with head tilted. “Whoever gave you that must have loved you very much.”

An unexpected lump rose in her throat. “His name was Quinn,” she choked; her fingers absently curled around the ring. “And I learned too late that he did.”

“Ah,” the necromancer sighed, smiling sadly. “I’ve heard of such imbued objects, but never had the chance to see one for myself. Rest assured,” she murmured soothingly, giving a light touch on the thief’s shoulder, “he is at peace, guarding you from the Mists. Few magics are as strong as love.”

“Thank you,” Myrie whispered raspily.

The sylvari smiled once more, straightened, and turned back to Gryphon. “Now, where’s the patient?”

 

She had just awoken from a fitful sleep. Try as she might, Selana found it impossible to recall the events of her obviously-disturbing dream. Gryphon had taken his leave, stating that he had important business to attend to and asking to be notified in case of any unusual developments.

“You can’t remember anything at all?” the necromancer asked curiously, bright eyes fixed unblinking on Selana’s pale blue stare.

“Nothing,” she replied, plopping her head back onto its pillow with frustration. “And my head still aches from this… Agony,” she huffed. 

“How inconvenient,” the necromancer mused, tapping a pen on her lips. Was she seeing things, or did Selana see the sylvari cast a knowing smirk towards Faren’s direction?

“Why is she here?” 

Selana glanced towards the door, where a significantly-displeased Sylfia stood leaning against the frame. Pupil-less green and neon lime eyes met each other, and Myrie could swear that she saw sparks starting to whiz through the air.

“Ah, Sylfia,” the necromancer smiled, a predatory look shadowing her face. “How nice to see you. Tell me,” she continued, turning back to Selana and peering into her ears, “are you still afraid of fire?”

The warrior growled. “What’s it matter to you? You’re here for the human, not me.”

“But I worry about you, sister,” she pouted, though seemingly-satisfied with the elementalist’s appearance. “After all, your birth was nothing short of a shock.”

“You’d be shocked if an Inquest firebomb was dropped on you.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Pity, you could have been quite pretty.” She sniffed the air delicately and clicked her tongue. “Still have that smell of smoke about you, Sylfia. How sad.”

The warrior strode towards her, hammer lifted. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t pulp you into paste and feed you to the dogs,” she snarled. Myrie noticed that the nigh-permanent odor of liquor was almost unnoticeable around her.  She’s   _sober_ , she realized. The necromancer did not back away or even flinch. 

“One reason?” her voice took on a cold, distant edge, and her eyes, when she raised them to Sylfia, seemed to look through her. “I can give you several. But allow me to state the most important, and that is because I am one of the few hopes this woman has of living a normal life.”

“Forget this,” Sylfia growled. She stalked towards the door and pointed at Selana. “Either you see to it that the necromancer leaves, or Oi’m out. I need a drink.” With that, she marched out the door and towards the tavern.

“Pleasant, no?” Nettle beamed sardonically. “Don’t worry, she’ll be back.”

“I am most certainly  _ not _  going back,” the warrior snarled, snapping back another shot of firewater and hissing at its burn.

“Look, Gryphon said that Selana’s going to need all of us, so whether we like it or not-”

“Oi’m a bleedin’ mercenary, for grief’s sake,” cried the sylvari, slamming her fist on the bar. “Why should I care if some bloomin’ human ‘mentalist has a few screws loose. Who cares! Not I. Oi, barkeep! Another drink- and this toime, bring me the ‘ole bottle!” She shoved her coin towards the poor man’s face and grimaced as he returned with another drink. “Ah, that’s betta’,” she sighed contentedly.

“You can’t possibly plan on drinking the whole night away, can you?” Myrie fumed. “At this rate, your lungs are going to be so full of alcohol, you just might burst into flames!”

The force with which the warrior hammered the bottle onto the wooden bench was so great that cracks appeared in the glass bottom.

“Oi’d wotch wot you say, fleshie,” Sylfia replied heatedly, voice taut. “Some things aren’t meant for jokin’.”

“Well, neither is another person’s life! If Gryphon says-”

“Yak yak yak yak! It’s all just, ‘one human said this!’, ‘another said that!’, and wot good’s it? Nuffin’! You lot are all stuck in the ground in fewer and fewer years! Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss Sneak Thief, Oi am off to finish cleaning out this man’s cellar.”

Sylfia rose unsteadily to her feet and hefted her hammer over her shoulder, knocking back her bottle again. Myrie stood, staring after her dumbfoundedly as she staggered over to another table.

“And then what?” she called angrily. “Drink some more, get some more random jobs, and get drunk again? You can’t run from your problems or others’, either!”

“Wotch me!” 

“Oh, I’ve done enough watching in my life," Myrie spat.  "You, though- you seem so high-and-mighty! ‘Oh, look at me, Oi’m the greatest thing to walk this side of Tyria! Wotch me fall drunk on my face- oh, no, a candle! Oi’m buuuurning!’”

“You…. You shaddap!” the warrior whirled around, gesturing with her finger as if brandishing a sword. “Or Oi’ll get ov’a there and knock yer block straight to the dragon itself!”

“Make me, then, blast you!” Myrie snarled, drawing her pistol.   Other patrons watched with concerned mutters; some started chanting for a fight.

“If you pretty likkle fing think you’s can strike me dead, Oi’ll break yer ‘and before you can think it!”

“Big talk coming from a smoldering  _ twig! _ ” snapped the thief.

“Say that again, Oi dare you!”  Sylfia's eyes blazed.  

“Fine!  _ Smoldering… pansy _ _ ….twig _ _!” _

The warrior’s mouth dropped open. Then, with a bellow of fury, she charged at Myrie. The thief nimbly leapt out of the way, landing with a  _ wham _  on the sylvari’s head and bashing it against the battered wooden table. She instantly fell unconscious, and Myrie took that opportunity to straighten the upturned furniture and reassure Andrew that he would not need to worry about his bar being vandalized for the third time by either her or her companions.

“Honestly, it’s a wonder you still keep the doors open when you see me walking by,” she sighed apologetically. “I probably would have banned me from the whole town by now. And if you’ll excuse me…” She bent down and picked up the sylvari, slinging her over her shoulder and half-dragging her towards the hospital. 

I hope I can make it there without dropping her- or passing out from her fumes _ , _  she thought, wrinkling her nose.  Hopefully, Nettle’s having better luck…

 

“Well, I suppose that answers how well  _ you’re _  doing,” Nettle purred, not bothering to turn from Selana’s bed to see Myrie as she stumbled through the door. She removed a cotton ball from the elementalist’s arm and placed it in a bowl before putting it back on her skin. Faren had left, but Nettle informed the thief that he had stated his intent to return later. “I’m not entirely sure why,” she mused, tapping her lips thoughtfully. “I thought it was rather obvious that Selana resents his presence…”

The elementalist twitched under the sylvari’s cool touch. “I wasn’t  _ that _  blatant with my irritation, was I? I would rather not give him the idea that I outright hate him…” she sighed, wincing as Nettle pierced her skin with a cyan-tinted needle.

“Hold still,” the necromancer replied frostily. “I only recently came up with this concoction, and the less it is wasted, the better.”

“For the record, she’s the one who tried attacking me,” grunted Myrie as she heaved the unconscious warrior onto an empty pallet on the opposite side of the room. Nettle’s nose wrinkled.

“Was that before or after having a go at the bar’s whiskey barrel?”

Myrie gave a dry chuckle. “After, but she was still somewhat with it,” she replied. “I think I managed to rile her up just enough for her cups to start talking.”

“That doesn’t take much.” Nettle tilted her head, brow furrowed curiously as she glanced at the sleeping warrior. “What concerns me is that strange lump on her head.”

“I may or may not have jumped on it.”

"Ah."  The necromancer shrugged. “She’s seen worse. She’ll recover, but I warn you, she’ll wake up groggy, grumpy, and sober, which means that she’ll remember what you did to her.”

“Just so long as I keep a distance from her and make sure she can’t reach her bow, I think I’ll be fine.”

Nettle gave a low laugh. “Suit yourself. I’ll see to her after she’s awoken.”

 

Myrie ducked as a simple wooden nightstand whooshed by her head and crashed through the window behind her.

“You didn’t tell me to remove anything that wasn’t nailed down!” she yelped accusingly at Nettle, who was calmly administering another dose of medicine to the flame-haired elementalist.

“Well, I thought you would surely know to do that,” she replied demurely, corking an empty bottle. “Sylfia’s been hefting that hammer ever since she was born. Naturally, her arms are quite strong- which means that she can toss a great many things which are nearby. Careful, please!” she snapped as a copper goblet clanged on the stone wall behind her ear.

“Oh, Oi’ll be careful, a’right- careful to hit that thief’s bobbin’ likkle head!” Sylfia had propped herself up on one elbow and was using her free hand to snatch and throw what was near her at Myrie, who was so far evading all of her attacks with fair ease. However, all other occupants were more concerned with keeping their own heads and bodies unpelted, and Nettle was becoming increasingly irritated as the tossing continued. Replacing all fragile items in her bag, she bent by Selana’s ear and whispered, “You should be able to walk around after tonight’s rest, but for that to happen, it must be a wholesome sleep that you have. So you’ll excuse me if I take some matters into my own hands.”

She stood, drawing a staff from her back, and batted one of Sylfia’s flying objects back at her, causing the warrior to whip her hands upward in defense. In that split second, Nettle was at her side and had jabbed something into her arm. The warrior gave a rough yelp in protest and jumped back, wincing and rubbing the wound.

“Sedative,” Nettle stated primly, sheathing what appeared to be a neon purple thorn.

“Unnecessary and painful!” Sylfia snapped, glowering at her.

“I beg to differ,” Myrie’s voice came from behind a dresser.

“What was that all about, anyway?” Nettle asked politely, watching as Sylfia slumped resignedly back onto her pillow. The warrior closed her eyes and grimaced. 

“ _You_ don't need to ask, but Oi suppose everyone else wonts to ‘ear my sad likkle story, right? Well, since I'm sober and've got you lot all here, I'll try to make it brief.”


	23. Arc 2, Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylfia explains her fear of fire. Selana has another dream.

 “Imagine the most wonderful day you could ever think. The birds are singing, and sunlight filters to your eyes through a golden, leafy curtain where shadows dance and excited chatterings are going on. Oi suppose you ‘umans could compare it to a … whaddayer call it? A birthday party. Only it’s secret. Yer still dreadfully excited, though. There’s just a bunch of chattering. Yer mind’s still a bit foggy since it’s only recently started emergin’ from the Dream-” 

“That’s where we acquire our knowledge and experience before we awaken into the world,” Nettle explained. Sylfia shot her a look. 

“Oi’m tellin’ the story, not you!” 

“Thanks,” whispered Myrie. Nettle nodded.  Sylfia gave a grunt and continued. 

“Now it’s a bit odd, but Oi can tell that it’s about noon. At the very least, it’s not dawn or dusk. Whatever cycle we’re born in will often determine our personality- at least some of its traits. Noon blooms- those of us born sometime after six in the morning and before noon- are often … well… to put it in others’ words, and no I’m not referring solely to myself, we tend to be a bit impulsive. Fighters and warriors are our lot- we prefer to leap before others speak. 

When you wake from the Dream, everything is a thousand times more intense than it will ever be, and nothing is dull. Your senses are awakening, and the world teems with potential. Then… something starts arcing out of the sky. You’ve heard others talk of shooting stars in your Dream, but this one’s different. Something’s wrong. With those new limbs of yours, these wonderful new senses, everything beautiful and wonderful and bright turns suddenly into your worst nightmares. I lasted for ten minutes in this world before I learned what pain was. Eleven minutes and  _helpless_  was added to my dictionary. You’ve never known what hurt is, and it’s suddenly the only thing you are  _able_  to know. The stunning skies turn into an inferno of fire and smoke, and your lungs and voice are ragged from screaming. The sap within your veins boils with heat, and the smell of wet leaves and fertile soil turns to the burnt-salt of scorched magic and acrid smoke from your own flesh. All around you is chaos. You almost wish you were still Dreaming- or in the Nightmare. Some sylvari are staring, your brothers and sisters sitting in shock and horror and your personal bonfire. Others are trying to find menders and water. By the time the fire is out, your body and voice turn into reminders of that torment.” 

She once more looked at her blackened hands, a bitter smile forming. 

“It taunts you. You remember everything so well… you recall how amazing everything seemed. And it all seems like a bleedin’ lie. The menders did what they could. Oi’m still strong, and I dare say that the fire hardened me. But hardly anyone would look at me. My face,” she said, tracing her fingers over her angular jaw, “was hardly the same. Suppose it wouldn’t be so bad if Oi still kept my eyes lookin’ normal, or if I didn’t’ have these burn marks. But there you go. Mender Aife later found what caused my sudden immolation was some sort of Inquest bomb. No one’s still quite sure how it got into the Grove without anyone noticin’ or anyfing. But there I was, burned like a piece of wood snatched from the fire, and there  _it_  was, a burnt-out shell of destruction. If you had a memory like that, wouldn’t you try drowning it?” 

Myrie grimaced. “Don’t think that I’ve not had my share of torment, either. You know the saying that it’s better to love and lose than never to be in love? Yeah, I don’t know about that one. For one thing, I kept running from him and refused to realize it, and then when I finally accepted it, he was butchered. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. And you know what? You can’t run from that. It’s always in your mind. Sure, some days you think you’re fine, but I can tell you this- if it weren’t for Selana’s interruption, I would probably have started a very bad cycle.” 

The elementalist’s gaze flickered to her. “Wait, was that when I came to ask for your help? But you said-” 

“I lied.” Myrie shifted uncomfortably. “I was so tired of it all. I just wanted it to be done- to forget how unfair I’d been to Quinn, how much he’d loved me despite how I treated him… I thought that if I descended into the bottle, maybe the alcohol would dull my senses and memory. Maybe I could move on without this guilt and shame. But …” She sighed. “I remembered after you came in that others tried the same. They told me it never worked. They always remembered. So I decided to keep going. After all, Quinn would have wanted better for me, and it would have been spitting on his memory to deny what happened. That’s why,” she said, turning back to Sylfia, “I said that you can’t ever outrun your problems. Sometimes you’ve just got to keep moving forward, taking one step at a time, and not get stuck in the past. Let yourself learn from it, but don’t stay there. Oblivion isn’t worth it.” 

  

Selana lay still in her bed, thinking over the events of the past day. As she considered what had happened in that short span, she realized that Myrie was even more broken and strong than she had realized. So, too, were the depths of the seemingly-simple Sylfia. The only people who she had encountered in the past twenty-four hours whom she didn’t know as well as she might like were Nettle, Faren, and herself. Although the necromancer seemed to be acting out of concern, there seemed to be too much detachment from any actual semblance of care for her to be fully comfortable with her presence. She gave off an unsettling atmosphere that made Selana's skin crawl, even when it seemed as though she couldn’t possibly intend any harm. And Faren, who she had thought she knew, seemed to be hiding more and more secrets from her. It was as if he was a completely different person.  

 _But who am I?_  she thought, turning over and staring through the recently-repaired window. A priest of Dwayna had arrived shortly after Sylfia’s tale and hired an asura to repair the shattered glass, but some cracks were still visible. An hour after that, the warrior had left, shortly followed by the thief and the necromancer. It was fitting, she thought, that a window which to some appeared whole was not as sound as it seemed. Perhaps she should be concerned that she related so much to a simple pane of glass, but at the moment, she didn’t care. Whatever medicine Nettle had given her was quickly tiring her, and she eventually succumbed to the powerful need for sleep. 

 

Her eyes flickered open. She realized that she was having the same dream as before, but this time, a forest clearing surrounded by lush plants and teeming with life greeted her mind’s eye instead of the hazy purple mist she had seen in the past. In front of her were the tall backs of her parents, standing in front of an enormous tree trunk. Selana realized with a start that she was much shorter than she would have been, and her voice, when she spoke, was that of a young child.  

“Mama, where is Sister? Why are we here?” she asked, chewing on the a lock of her hair. Her face was tickled by a warm breeze, and though it was humid, the air was not unpleasant. 

For a moment, the woman did not respond; her shoulders shook with quiet sobs. Her father gently wrapped her in his arms, and she leaned into him, burying her head in his neck. 

“Deirdre," his voice was thick with emotion. "You know this had to happen. We had- we had no choice…” 

“But will she recognize us? Will she ever see us again?” 

“She is but a newborn,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head and blinking his eyes against tears which rose to blur his gaze.  "Time enough for anything to happen from now until then."

“Where’s Mr. Thackery?” Selana’s child-voice questioned. She had stopped chewing on her hair, and the warm, wet edge was rapidly cooling on her neck. An unsettling fear began to snake around her mind. “Daddy, what’s wrong?” She tried to lean over and bend around their legs to see past them. As Selana looked towards the trunk, she saw other figures- two women, one man- and a small bundle at the base of its roots.

Her heart leapt to her throat. Why was she so upset by this? As she tried to analyze what the dream could mean and attempted to discern what she was seeing, a wave of purple once more surged over her, choking and filling her nostrils. She returned to her regular size and form, now viewing the dream as one would view a scene from a play. 

“You cannot know this yet,” came a voice. It sounded familiar, yet unlike anything she had heard. She gagged on the lavender tendrils which snaked around her head. 

“Please, stop,” she begged, reaching to tear uselessly at them. “I have to know what’s going on! What am I seeing?” 

“Forget,” the mist whispered. “Forget until it has been revealed once more.” 

“I cannot forget!” she cried.  Her arms snapped to her sides as she craned her head, straining to locate the voice's source. “Why is this so important to me?” 

“The letter,” it said.  Remorse threaded through its tone. “Read the letter and ask your companions what it means. You will need their help.” 

 

Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she awoke in a cold sweat. Though Nettle had recommended a restful sleep, there was no way she would be able to rest after another dream like that.  Why did it always seem to arrive before an answer to her questions could be received? She braced herself against the bedpost and stood. Informing the priest of her intent to return home, she wrapped her coat around herself and began walking back. In the morning, she would seek out the sylvari and Myrie and ask them what they had found during their scuffle with the assassins. For now, though, she decided to begin preparing for a journey. She felt as though she would need to be ready in case the letter's answer led her elsewhere. She paused in packing her backpack and looked up at the silvery moon. How peaceful the night seemed. If only her mind was so still.


	24. Arc 2, Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nettle pays Lord Faren a visit and introduces him to a secret companion.

A calm, amused voice broke into Lord Faren’s absent thoughts. 

“She’s remembering,” the speaker purred. He looked up from the depths of his wineglass into the uncomfortably-close face of Nettle Viridia. He barely prevented himself from screaming but could not stop himself from he flinching back in surprise. 

“Don’t do that!” he shuddered.

“I was here for the past two minutes. The fact that you only _just_ noticed me says something about your observation skills which is not exactly complimentary,” she replied smoothly, pressing down on her skirt and removing some wrinkles. “Firewater, please,” she ordered, taking the seat across from him. Faren watched as the bartender on-duty walked back towards the cellar before returning to his wine. It took him a moment to break through his own thoughts before he fully realized Nettle’s statement. Violent coughs interrupted his drink.

“Wait, what do you mean ‘she’s remembering’?” he asked, blinking away the tears which swam in front of his eyes. He mentally cursed the sylvari’s unflinching calm and how she had managed to make him appear so ridiculous in the space of a few minutes.

“Tell me,” she stated, ignoring his question pointedly as she stirred her drink, “are you always playing the part of the fool? It really doesn’t suit you.” She knocked back the liquor, giving a pained smile at its burn. She squinted at him a bit more severely. “No, I take that back; it does suit you. I’m sure that’s why she’s not yet caught on to your ruse.”

The lord’s skin crawled. “What are you talking about?” he asked, trying in vain to keep a tremor from his voice. An ominous, unpleasant tingle was beginning to itch just below the nape of his neck.

“There you go again,” she declared, eyes glittering. “You’re denying your knowledge of what I speak through feigned ignorance. Truly, you pull it off quite well.”

“Honestly, I have no idea-”

She slowly removed a wrapped parcel from her backpack and placed it with a hollow thump on the bar. “Don’t lie,” she sighed. “My companion doesn’t like it when others lie.”

“You…your companion,” Faren stammered, thoroughly confused.  The Mursaat seal burned with a dull hunger at the edges of his consciousness.

“Yes- an ancient fellow, I know,” she replied, and though her voice was cheery, her face had a look of undisguised malice. “He’s quite good at sorting truth from lie, and speaks to only one other necromancer of whom I am aware.” She tapped a finger on the silken lump, producing a sound similar to the hollow tapping of a fingernail on wood. “Of course, she's been dead for a while now.  If you keep trying to evade my question, I think I’ll let you see him.”

“I think you need to head home and rest, madam,” he replied, laughing weakly. “Truly, I have no clue as to what you want me to say.”

Her green eyes burned like witchfire in the dim light of the bar. He swallowed loudly, clearing his throat and staring at the sediment in his wineglass. 

“He says you can’t speak of it."  She spoke slowly. “There’s some sort of seal on you that is older than he,” she murmured. “Fascinating.”

“Well, I’m off!” Faren declared, quickly rising to his feet.  His chair screeched in protest against the wooden floor. “Nice meeting you, Miss- what was it? Nettle? Let’s do this again never.” He turned toward the doorway but was stopped from leaving by a hand gripping his shoulder.

“You can’t speak of your secret, but you can listen, and I can read your expression. So don’t think about leaving just yet, human. You  _ will _  answer me.”

He sighed, taking his seat again and running a shaky hand through his hair. “Fine. What do you want?”

She smiled excitedly. “I already told you: Information.”

 

“The patient has had her memories suppressed for quite some time- I’d say somewhere around twenty years- but the restraints placed on her mind are beginning to deteriorate. Actually, they’ve been breaking down for quite a while, but only recently have the cracks become something of a concern. I was able to discern a taste of mesmeric influence from a blood sample I took.”

The lord realized that he was grinding his teeth. “I told you to keep your daggers away from her,” he growled, eyes flashing.

“You know nothing of my methods,” the sylvari retorted acidly. “You’re so blinded by your prejudices and emotions that you overlook anything which you consider unimportant, and you fail to realize that the smallest thing may mean the difference between life and death. My colleagues were like you,” she hummed, a strange calm returning to her voice. “They were terrified of how I operated, so they began acting quite poorly to me.” A contented look slowly spread across her face. “They eventually were quieted when my research proved more conclusive than theirs. And do you know why that was the case, hm? Because I have a talent. Most creatures can taste only so many things, human. I, however, have an aptitude for discerning the unusual- but only if I can taste the blood of the affected creature. That is how I was able to tell that there is something magical obstructing Selana’s memories. You didn’t give away anything in that regard, but from the way you are stiffening, I’d say that you weren’t expecting me to discover this.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to feed on the blood of a patient,” he retorted, neck blazing with anger.

“You’d be surprised how effective it is to discover what ails them,” she replied simply. “Now if you’ll silence your impudent screeching, I have some questions to ask. Don’t say a word, lest you interrupt my train of thought."  She had somehow managed to make her single shotglass last longer than the now-three glasses of wine that stood next to him. " What is the nature of your seal? Before I question you, I’d prefer to ensure that it doesn’t result in a corpse.”

“I thought you necromancers  _ liked _  corpses,” huffed Faren.

“Most do. I don’t mind them, but I prefer live subjects. Quit jumping like that; you’ll make me spill my drink. You needn’t worry; I have no plans on using you or any of your companions as test subjects anytime soon.”

“I’d prefer to have them never become your lab rats, if it’s all the same to you.”

“And if I find my answers satisfactory, I will avoid that. But as I said before, aside from knowing that it is an ancient and magical bond, I have no idea of its specifics. Can you speak openly of your knowledge?”

“No.”

“False,” she declared, lip curling. “Your heart-rate indicates that you just lied.”

“I didn’t!” he protested. “Well, I suppose I could talk about it, but only to others who have the same seal as I.”

She nodded. “That’s better, though it is disappointing. If I were to have you write down the answers to my questions, would you be able to reply in kind?”

The unsettling burning sensation on the back of his neck prickled again. “I think not,” he said nervously. The feeling faded.

“Fascinating,” the necromancer murmured, staring at him once more. She sighed lightly. “Well, this is so far quite unsatisfactory. Could you reply in any nonverbal ways, such as consciously-given facial or bodily cues?”

Faren’s skin burned again, and this time, he was aware of a presence of sorts that lingered hazily in the back of his mind. If it had a voice, he was certain that it would be daring him to try. This ancient magic was hungering for a chance to stretch, but he was in no mood to give it an opportunity to do so.

“I’d best not,” he replied, feeling the seal recede another time. 

Nettle frowned. “This is going to be difficult,” she huffed.

“You could always go your merry way and wait,” Faren suggested. “I’m sure this mystery of Selana’s will be solved shortly.” He gave a hopeful smile.

The one he received in return was significantly less warm. “You are an impulsive, stubborn man,” she beamed. “Though I currently have no intention towards harming anyone near to you, perhaps causing some seeds to be sown would motivate you towards compliance. Really, I would have hoped that Lord Radwing would have given me more background information on my patient before assigning her to me.”

“You’re one to talk,” the young lord muttered peevishly. “Word around town is that you murdered a hylek merchant in Lion’s Arch. So if you try to smear my good name, know that I-”

“You will have absolutely no proof or grounds on which to sow that little tale.” She sat back, contentedly sipping from her glass.

“What do you mean? He had a family- children!”

“So did the asura whose progeny he willingly allowed to become afflicted with scalebane. Oh, don’t look so shocked; your face looks much less idiotic when you keep your mouth shut. Contrary to some of these  _ rumors, _  I am not some madwoman who goes around eating people. I will admit that I have an unusual compulsion, but everything I do has a reason. By selling products which contained hazardous material and ignoring the complaints of his customers, this merchant spread the disease to dozens of innocent- well, relatively-innocent – progeny. For some, scalebane was nothing more than an excruciatingly-painful flaking of their delicate ears  and a mild fever, but for most of the afflicted, the flaking would eventually lead to infections and other unfortunate results, further compounding their fevers and becoming quite frequently deadly. By eliminating the factor in this equation- I of course refer to our dearly departed merchant- I have not only halted the distribution of hazardous materials, but I have also provided a cure to those still suffering.” She placed her empty glass downward on the bar. “Are you still convinced that I am nothing more than a lunatic?”

Faren’s thoughts decided to be extremely unhelpful and scattered in his brain like a flock of startled moa.

“That’s what I thought. You do well to fear me, but for now, I am your ally.  Now, for my  _ actual _  questions…”


	25. Arc 2, Chapter 13

 In another part of Divinity’s Reach, Myrie was having a morning which perhaps rivaled Faren’s in terms of its unpleasantness. While most of the city’s citizenry were waking to the light of dawn, or perhaps a rooster crowing, she was awoken by a foot being planted firmly in her side and shaking her roughly into wakefulness.

“Oi, gerrup,” her tormenter’s voice grated.

“New shoes,” Myrie mumbled, turning over and pulling the blankets over her head. “What happened to the steel ones?”

“They got uncomfortable, so I grew my own. Now get up, fleshy.” The nudge that followed was significantly harder than the previous one.

“Ow! Fine.” The thief rolled out of her cot, fingers fumbling for her weapons and shoes. “Couldn’t this wait until a more decent hour?” she groused.

“What Oi’m more concerned about is how you di’nt notice my arrival. Oi could’a been an assassin, and where’d you be if that were the case?”

“Sleeping peacefully or probably seeing Quinn again.”

Sylfia was briefly stunned into silence.

“Sorry.  You’re not the only one who has dreams of the past,” Myrie sighed. “I keep seeing him… well, parts of him… that the Seraph didn’t find until later. Two-Blade Pete was ruthless in his vengeance.”

“Oi’d say he was a bit of a nutter. Didn’t you off him?”

Myrie smiled tightly, yanking her boots on with unnecessary violence. “Not soon enough. Now, why in the world are you rousing me at this hour?”

“Selana. ‘Said it’s important. Remember that letter?”

“I thought we'd hidden it for her own good.  How did she know about it?”

“Beats me. Point is, she knows, and she wants to see it. You do still have it, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” She pulled out the bloodstained paper. “It’s still legible, thank goodness.”

Sylfia grimaced. “We’ll see if you’ll say that after our little excursion…”

 

 

“Where’s Nettle?” Selana asked after greeting the warrior and thief. She offered them some tea, which both accepted.

“Isn’t that like cannibalism to you?” Myrie asked, arching an eyebrow at the warrior and sipping her drink.

Sylfia narrowed her eyes and gave her tea a violent slurp.

“Manners,” Selana remarked absently.

“Beats me where the creepy pale salad is. Maybe we should just go without her,” the thief suggested, scooting her chair away from the flame-colored sylvari.

“No. Gryphon was explicit; any journey pertaining to me requires you two and her, despite any misgivings we may have. If he believes her to be trustworthy, then we should have no reason to doubt her.”

Sylfia snorted. “She’s good at that. Word of advice- no matter how sweet or friendly she may seem, keep yourself as far away from her as possible.”

“I was recently her patient,” Selana replied calmly. “I do not believe that there were any injuries I received which could have been expected outside the normal realm of treatment.”

“Yeah, well her ‘normal’ treatment gives mos' people a case of nerves.”

“And on that note, here’s the letter,” Myrie remarked loudly, thrusting the paper forward. Sylfia glowered at her and gulped down the last of her tea.

“It’s not a shot; you sip it,” the thief sighed.

“Oi added a bit of kick to it,” the sylvari replied. “So Oi can drink it as I please.”

Selana opened the letter and read it. When she was done, she closed it, gave it to a servant, and returned to her seat across the table from Sylfia and Myrie.

“How long have you known that my parents were keeping a secret from me?” she asked quietly.

Myrie sighed and set her teacup down gently.  “Sylfia only recently joined our little circus, and I found it when we were fighting off those would-be assassins. Since that was about a week ago, that’s how long I’ve known.” She folded her fingers and continued. “Honestly, if you’d been in a better state of mind, I would have voted to show it to you as soon as possible, but since you seemed a little unsettled after the fight…”

Sylfia snorted. “A little unsettled would be an understatement. You could barely walk- thorns, you collapsed shortly after- so we thought that you’d need time to recover before reading it.”

“What I want to know is how the White Mantle got their hands on it,” the elementalist said. “I’ve asked some of the older servants, and they’re bringing out some samples to compare, but from what I’ve seen, this is definitely my mother’s handwriting. Of course, any member of the nobility could have ties to them, and it’s not out of the question to think that there may be Mantle sympathizers in the highest levels of the court that could be holding them hostage.”

“But the question still remains as to who would have the audacity to steal a letter from another household, and even more important, who would be willing to have you killed for it,” Myrie said.  "I doubt there would be too many with the kind of power and influence to mask it."

“Members of the White Mantle are said to have an incredible amount of patience and hatred for those who have wronged them or their organization. If I had to guess, someone likely researched my family's history in exterminating them and decided to act.”

“They wouldn’t be that devoted to vengeance, would they?” the warrior asked, shocked at the concept.

“You underestimate their zeal,” Myrie said, frowning. “They’ve been known to harbor hatred for some of the most ancient households who have connections to the War in Kryta. Even Gryphon has had his own assassination attempts.”

“What happened?”

“They failed, obviously.”  Selana's smile was thin but proud.

Sylfia pinched the bridge of her forehead. “Honestly, I still think Oi’m too sober to deal with this…especially at this hour of the morning.”

“Well, keep your lids on and stay away from your cups. I mean, Gryphon’s smart - crazy smart. He knows that he’s targeted by the Mantle and is constantly on-guard just in case. I can’t help wondering if he does have outside sources, though, since some of the information he gets is so out of public knowledge that he has to have help,” the thief mused.

“If he’s got all these resources, then, why isn’t he helping _us_?”  Sylfia sneered.  Selana had taken that moment to leave the room.

“He is! That’s why he sent Nettle and myself. We’re just fortunate you’ve decided to join us.”

The elementalist walked back into the room from an adjoining chamber, followed shortly by her eldest servant, Samuel.

“Really, Sam, you needn’t trouble yourself over fetching those. I was about to get Nancy and ask her to do it,” she was protesting.

“Nonsense! Nancy takes too long, and by the time she would have found it, I’d be in the Mists chatting with Grenth.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” the elementalist sighed worriedly. He waved her concerns off.

“We all die at some point or another,” he declared, old hands shaking as he placed a locked wooden box on the table. “There’s no point in denying the truth of it.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make it any less pleasant to think about,” Selana replied reproachfully. She gently took the keys from his trembling fingers and unlocked the box.  “Thank you, Sam,” she smiled, bending down to give the old man a kiss on his cheek. “Please let Delilah know that the tea was delicious.”

The aged face crinkled in a sea of smiling lines. “Of course, Lady Firestone. Do be careful.” With that last parting request, he took the tea tray and tottered back towards the servants’ quarters. Selana removed an old, yellowing paper and set it next to the bloodied letter.

“As I suspected,” she murmured, gazing intently at the writings, “this is definitely my mother’s script. Where did you find this?” Her glance immediately went to Myrie, who was discovering the great amount of interest she could feign in a single spot on her pants.

“Well,” the thief hummed nervously, picking at it, “we actually found it after our little scuffle with the assassins. I think it dropped out of the leader’s pocket when you knocked him down.”

“’E probably had it for legi’mancy reasons,” Sylfia mused. “Couldn’t question if they were keeping them in Nebo Terrace if he had infallible proof of it, yeah?”

“Fair enough, but this paper appears to be artificially preserved,” the elementalist answered. “There's some sort of protective magic surrounding it.  And next time, I would prefer to be personally notified if you find something like this.”

“What’s it mean if it’s been well-kept?” Myrie pointed out.  Selana ignored her, musing on the spell.

“It's under preservation, yet was stained by blood when it fell. Preservation spells aren’t new, and are most often used on sentient objects. To try keeping something as fragile as paper from becoming ruined would require a very specific type of preservation spell. This would keep it safe from harm until the magic weakened.”

“Again, what’s the point?” Sylfia huffed, throwing her hands in the air. “So a little old paper gets some blood on it. It’s still able to be read!”

“I think I see where she’s coming from,” Myrie said slowly. “With all of the blood that was around it, the letter should be in even worse condition than it is now. A newer preservation spell would keep it from being damaged at all. But that means that this letter wasn’t recently written, since the spell has weakened and let it be damaged in some spots.”

“So this letter could be much older than the one the Mantle wrote to lure Selana in the first place.”

“Exactly,” Myrie confirmed, pouring another cup of tea.

“What’s it even say?” Sylfia asked, pulling out a hip-flask and taking a swig.

Before the elementalist could speak, an out-of-breath servant came charging in, stammering and jabbering a slew of incoherent phrases which sounded like a drawn-out apology.

“I tried to- she wouldn’t listen- claims it’s-!”

“Oh, hush, you silly thing,” Nettle’s voice followed the courier’s apologies almost immediately after he began spewing them. She strode in confidently. “My deepest regrets for my late appearance. I was simply gleaning more information on our future journey. We are going out soon, correct?”

“Yes.” Selana folded the letter and placed it in her pocket. “Gather up your gear, gentlewomen. We’re going to make a trip to Nebo Terrace.”


	26. Arc 2, Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Countess Anise orders a watch to be put on Lady Firestone. Selana and the others encounter a pocket of cultists.

 Countess Anise was quite unhappy, to say the least, when she heard of Selana’s plan and destination.

“Why didn’t you try to stop them?” she asked her informant, who looked rather worse for the wear and very much breathless.

“You know my cover,” he gasped. “If I were to try stalling them, they’d get suspicious. I’m pretty sure Samuel, her eldest servant, already has figured out who I really am. Old man’s been having me rearrange the furniture in the upper dining room for the past month!”

“Is that all, Jethro? You should be glad he didn’t pull out one of the family heirlooms. I’ve heard some of them are extremely dangerous.” She turned towards a globe and spun it with a finger. “When was Lady Firestone’s last treatment?”

“Lady Kasmeer said she performed an emergency intervention after the necromancer left.”

“Hm. Dangerous. That necromancer is unpredictable, and we have too little knowledge about her to construct a solid evaluation. Inform Kasmeer that any further interactions pertaining to the maintenance of Firestone’s mind are to be done in the company of no fewer than two guards. We don’t want the sylvari to become curious as to how her blood suits her tastes. When did Selana’s traveling party leave?”

“Just this morning, Exemplar.”

A flicker of irritation briefly crossed her face. “Please tell me that we at least have a unit tailing them in case of any psychic flares.”

“We do not, Ma’am. I’ll send out a scouting party as soon as-”

“No."  She held up a hand and pursed her lips. “We want this to remain as secret as possible. The fewer Blades out, the better. I have no doubt that her group can hold its own in a fight, but without an in-depth reworking of Selana’s mind, it is likely that the closer she gets to the source of her trauma, the less-stable her mental holds will become.” The countess stalked away from the whirling globe, eyes sparking with grim determination. “Send Gryphon Radwing to follow the party, and keep me informed. We cannot lose an ally to the Queen in this time where she could be seen as vulnerable. Minister Caudecus and others would certainly rally towards having her deposed.” She glanced back up at him, lips tightening. “Didn’t you hear me, soldier? Send your message and go!”

 

“Do we even know what a Mantle hideout would look like?” Myrie huffed, stretching her neck upwards and cricking it. “I mean, I don’t think they’d advertise. ‘White Mantle cultists, here for your top-of-the-line lunacy! Petty vengeance included!’”

“Oh, shaddap,” Sylfia muttered irritably. She rubbed her temples. “Drink’s talking back right now, and it doesn’t need any more shouting.”

“Why did we agree to bring them along, again?” Nettle asked cheerily, plucking the petals off of a flower. “I know Myrie was part of the plan, but according to my informant, Sylfia was a bit of a bonus deal.” She tossed the naked stalk aside. “Do we use her as bait?”

“No, we are not using her as bait, Nettle,” Selana replied calmly, striding through the wooded forest. “Gryphon taught me better, and you should know that’s not how we operate.”

“On the contrary, that information is quite new to me. What do we do if we find this group?”

“S’posed’ly, they’re all nutters,” Sylfia slurred, tipping and shaking her flask over her open mouth. She made a face. “Empty,” she sighed, slinging it into the nearby brush.

“You’ve had enough to drink already, Sister,” Nettle declared reproachfully. “And if we want to have any element of surprise, it’s best if you keep quiet.”

“Right, and what do we do if we find them?” Myrie asked slowly.

“We kill them,” Selana replied coolly.

The thief blinked. “Would you like a moment to think on that one, Flameylocks?”

Selana looked down and gave her a very calm stare. “I have already done so. If they fight us with deadly intent, we’ll do the same. They’ve kept my parents for who knows how long. Such inhumane treatment deserves punishment of the highest order.”

Nettle’s eyes narrowed, and she smiled. “We’re closing in,” she purred. “My companion says they’re holed up in the hunting lodge.”

“Yeah, about that,” Myrie drawled, drawing her pistols and readying them, “when are we going to meet this mysterious accomplice of yours?”

“As soon as we see combat,” the necromancer replied.

“There’s the lodge,” Selana whispered, drawing her staff. “Weapons at the ready. On my mark…”

 

Sylfia broke down the door with a resounding crash.

“So much for stealth,” Myrie sighed.

“Well, she did say ‘charge’,” Nettle replied, ducking a cultist’s swinging strike. She whipped her hand at his throat, crushing his larynx and sending him choking to the ground. The warrior roared and leaped on his prone form, ending his misery.

“If you don’t want a charge, you don’t shout it,” Sylfia hissed, golden sap leaking from her nose.

“I did want one, actually,” Selana said. She rained a flaming meteor on the head of a squealing attacker and struck his companion in the abdomen with her staff before nailing him on the head.

“Then why were we being so bloody quiet on the way up?” Myrie shouted irately.

“You never know what kind of wild animals are lurking around here,” Selana replied.

“That’s your excuse? Wild ani- Why are you smirking? Please tell me that you didn’t do that just for the sake of a giggle at my expense!”

“Oh, loosen up, shortie,” Sylfia grinned, bashing another two cultists into the ground. “You’ll get an ‘art attack otherwise!”

“We are in a literal den of assassins, and she decided that now would be a good time to joke?”

“Diff’rent strokes, I suppose,” the warrior shrugged, charging after a few fleeing Mantle who screeched in terror at her approach.

“By the way, didn’t you say you’d be unveiling your ‘companion’?” Myrie shot a trick arrow at the cultists, which bounced around and knocked them on their heads.

Nettle had been backed into a corner, gracefully weaving and dodging the assassins’ attacks. For a few seconds, she did not reply, her smile predatory.

“Nettle!”

With barely a glance in her direction, the necromancer flicked her hands outward and drew her weapons.  A dagger was gripped in one hand. In the other, she held an ancient skull. Its hollow gaze flared into unearthly green light that burned into an attacker’s mind as she channeled her energy through it and greedily devoured his life-force. A moment later, he toppled onto the ground, writhing as black smoke streamed from his eyes and mouth.

“This is Adam,” she answered, sneering at his withered corpse before returning her gaze to his terror-struck companions. “And he would prefer that you be a bit more quiet.”

Myrie watched in terrified awe as the pale necromancer quickly went from hapless victim into powerful predator, leaving her enemies howling in agony and flaying their exposed skin to bloody ribbons. The strength was sapped from their bodies, leaving the easy task of elimination to Sylfia and Myrie. Soon, there were only a few cultists left. They scurried towards the cellar-room. As they reached its door, one of them bellowed, “Don’t let them reach the basement!”

“Well, there’s an idea,” Sylfia grinned.

“Follow them!” Selana ordered.

 

From within the basement, the sounds of an argument could be heard.

Sylfia once more proved her hard-headedness useful by using her head to break down the cellar door. The few cultists who remained or had retreated there whipped around in shock and rage, eyes glittering under the lanternlight. The room itself seemed quite furnished. Almost like …

A base of operations, Myrie realized. She had been expecting a cell, but an entire base? Eliminating it could lead to greater security for Tyria- if they made it out alive.

A blonde-haired woman dressed in gold- and red- accented white robes was raging at the bruised and bloodied informant. He cowered at her anger.

“And not only are you incompetent and unable to bring our target down,” she snarled, drawing a ruby-tipped staff and whirling towards the group, “but you decided to bring them here?” Turning towards her gathered men, she pointed at them and shouted, “Leave none of them alive!”


	27. Arc 2, Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keepers of Selana's mind begin to grow concerned with her stability.

“I thought you had said that she was supposed to stay in Divinity’s Reach!” Faren sputtered angrily. Although he had arrived at the meeting with his usual sense of pomp and flair, once he sat in his chair around the table with Kasmeer and Yalora, he deflated, showing signs of stress that no one on the street would have suspected.

“Good gods, when did you last sleep?” Kasmeer gasped.

He waved her concerns aside. “I just was informed by Samuel that she had gone out of town with two sylvari and that thief, Myrie Ward. Why wasn’t I informed?”

“It was an emergency decision,” Yalora replied calmly. “Countess Anise herself sent out a missive that only one of us was to follow her, and that he would have to be a Shining Blade so as to keep the security of the kingdom at peace.”

“Gryphon? Oh, no wonder he’s not here,” the lord groaned and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. “When did he leave?”

“We don’t know. Gryphon didn’t say. The only reason we know is because a servant sent us a letter last night telling us that he had left to follow Selana and to confirm her mind didn’t undergo any further complications.”

“What do you mean, ‘further complications’?” He narrowed his eyes at Kasmeer, who gave a nervous hiccup. “You had told me that she was doing fine,” he accused.

“Well, she _was_ \- I mean- oh dear,” she gulped. “I may or may not have been slightly deceptive with you. Selana is _physically_ showing little to no signs of stress, but her mind is rapidly displaying cracks. She’s starting to recall her past at a rate which is both painful and detrimental to her psyche. If she has a sudden breakthrough without immediate aid, it’s very possible that her sanity will dissolve.”

“We didn’t want to rush her recovery,” Yalora continued, “because the amount of treatment she had to undergo was so strenuous and long that a sudden attempt to break through its barriers would undoubtedly result in permanent damage.  She still seems to hold on to the belief that her parents are alive,” she said quietly, almost musing to herself. “In a way, her mind is still very much like a child’s. She operates on the few simple truths that she knows.”

“Which is ironic, considering that most of what she recalls or has been told is a lie," Faren grumbled.

“Faren, I understand your frustration. Truly, we all wish that she could remember what she needs to know. But while the Mantle still operate and work in the higher seats of Kryta, it is too dangerous for her to know the extent of her parents' involvement in the Shining Blade.”

“What matter is it? The Mantle already know that!”

“If she suddenly remembers who are responsible for her parents’ deaths- and the disappearance of a sister she didn’t know she had- it is very possible that her shattered mind would operate on one principle only: Revenge. She would not stop until the entire Mantle is razed to the ground and smoldering in the ashes of their fallen companions.” The elementalist sighed, leaning back in her chair and running a lightly-shaking hand through her hair.  “It would be a suicide mission. And I fear that her current allies would help her- they’re just blind enough to her that they would see her mission as justified.”

“Why wouldn’t it be a good thing? The White Mantle has done enough damage throughout the centuries. I would be more than willing to take up the sword and strike down those vagabonds myself!”

“The problem is not whether or not it would be justified to stop the White Mantle.  The problem would be in overzealous prejudice. How would you be able to tell which person would be innocent and who would be guilty? The Mantle are nothing if not adaptable. They have learned how to blend in with the general society. Anyone who is accused of having ties with them would easily become subject to her wrath. Would it be worthwhile to kill many for the sake of destroying one? No; we cannot let her mind recover unsupervised. I only hope that Lord Radwing is able to mend the cracks he senses, for I fear that their number will only multiply, and he will need all the strength he has to keep her mind from shattering apart.”


	28. Arc 2, Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gryphon delivers an ultimatum to Nettle. All but Selana learn the name of her lost sibling.

 The corpses were still. Nettle had gleaned the information that they had, and the results were disheartening. She turned back towards her companions, her eyes half-closed, her thoughts and mouth tight in a grim line. Selana had withstood the battle well for the first few, chaotic blows, but she shortly collapsed after throwing but a few spells. Sylfia had fallen back to protect her, and Myrie and Nettle managed to struggle through the encouraged cultists, sustaining several wounds in the process. The necromancer’s pale tongue snaked out of her mouth, licking up the golden sap that oozed out of a cut on her arm. She didn’t taste any poison, but her blood-loss could be harmful if it wasn’t staunched. She glanced over at the humans and the warrior.  
  Although all seemed fine aside from their cuts and bruises, Selana’s gaze was glassy and distant, her breathing ragged. Perhaps she had sustained another psychic trauma. Nettle’s eyes narrowed. This could be a result of the mysterious “barrier” that Faren had begrudgingly leaked. It seemed oddly familiar. Her throat tingled with burning curiosity; she had to taste that magic again. Despite her desire to attempt discerning whatever magic could be contained within Selana’s veins, the necromancer realized that there was a tangible suspicion and caution against her. Sylfia, bless her scorched, half-blind heart, had probably spread heinous rumours about her curiosity. This would make her goal significantly more difficult. However, she was nothing if not resourceful, and the recent battle had provided ample opportunity for her to satisfy her curiosity. She swayed to her feet, reaching for her pack and pulling out a roll of gauze and herbs before kneeling by her injured companions.

“You’ve all sustained wounds. I’ll patch them up, but you’ll need to rest.”

 

Selana’s gaze was unblinking and unseeing; she was oblivious to all around her, knowing and viewing only that which was in her mind's eye. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears, and through glassy eyes she saw herself as if she was viewing her past through a cracked window, hearing only muffled voices and seeing only flashes through the glass. She saw herself as a child, running on short legs after her parents who were walking toward an enormous, white tree. An ethereal lightning storm whited-out the spiderwebbed window, blinding and deafening her from seeing the whole image. Despite the fact that the snatching mist was already beginning to whirl desperately around her, Selana braced herself and steeled her determination to listen to the shattered memory.

“No! Don’t go,” her younger self wailed, running after the slumped, plodding forms of her parents. “Don’t take Sissy with you! She’s got to be okay! Mommy! Mommy, stop! Daddy!” Her voice was choked with hysterical sobs, and her halo of bright red hair was unkempt- had she been pulling it?

A familiar form bent down and scooped her up, prevented her from running further towards the clearing and following her parents, and hushed her soothingly.

“It will be all right, Selana, it will be f-”

She squirmed in his gentle hold and stared up at him through watery eyes.  “Mr. Radwing, you’ve got to help! Make them-”

“Stop,” the mist hissed. From behind the window, Selana turned to face its source. It had taken on a humanoid shape and spoke with desperation in its voice. “You must not continue. Your mind is at stake,” it pleaded. “Forget what you have seen for now; in time all will be revealed.”

“I’ve waited long enough,” she replied coldly. She conjured a bow of ice in her hands and pointed an arrow at the mist’s covalescing shape. “Twenty years I have waited, pleaded, prayed to find out what happened to my family.  You cannot stop me.  Give up your attempts to hold me back; I will find out what happened no matter how much you try to prevent me.”

“If you keep pursuing this path, you will risk losing your mind!”

“I have already lost my childhood,” she seethed. “What else lies hidden here? Who is this sister?”

“Are you sure you want to remember?” The mist’s quiet question gave her pause. As if sensing her hesitation, it continued. “There is much more at stake than your own health, and there is so much more pain here than you realize. You have already lost much in this pursuit.  Your peace of mind - your health.  Stop trying to reconcile your dreams with what you know. Follow the path you have been traveling in the waking world. Turn back from your immaterial pursuit while you may recover, and you will recall your past at a safer ra-”

It never finished its sentence. An arrow whispered through the air, piercing through the mist's center and scattering it into fading wisps of purple smoke.

“I have waited too long,” Selana repeated, tone grim. “I will find the truth, and I will pay any price to discover it.”

 

 

She awoke to dull bruises and sharp cuts in her flesh. Her body was stiff, her joints sore from battle. She blinked, shaking her head lightly to clear the remaining cobwebs. When she opened her eyes again, her stomach jolted in shock at the pale-green, glowing face of Nettle, which was unnervingly-close to her own. The necromancer’s orbs glimmered, illuminating her giddy grin.

“I tasted it,” she purred. “Your burden is lightening, isn’t it? The magic- this curse of yours- is rapidly fading.”

“What are you talking about?” Selana asked, forcing herself to calm down. “How would you know?”

“I tasted it in your blood. It has remarkable properties, you know; several strains of magic arc through it, some of which seem centuries old. Tell me, do you know if you have any non-human ancestry?”

“I wouldn’t know- but what ‘curse’ are you speaking of? And what do you mean you’ve been… tasting my blood?”

Nettle glanced around, frowning at what appeared to be nothing in particular. “Pfaugh. I was going to tell you, but someone is lurking nearby, and there’s only one reason he’d be here. Well, I suppose it is for your own good. But before I let him do his work, answer me this: Have you been dreaming of yourself as a child, perhaps in a forest clearing?”

Before Selana fully processed the meaning behind this question, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she slumped onto the floor unconscious. Nettle pouted, glowering at the invisible spot.

“Confound it, Gryphon,” she sighed. “If you want me to help her, you’re going to need to let me in on this little tidbit of yours.”

The cloaked mesmer’s mouth twitched in disapproval. “How did you find out about her memory suppression?”

She let out a giggle. “It’s obvious to anyone who dabbles in magic. You should have known with my talents that I would find out sooner or later.”

“I knew that you would, but I also thought that you would have the prudence to realize that drilling her on her memories might cause them to fracture or scatter. If she loses what little is starting to be pieced, there’s no telling what might be lost. If you want to know more, you’ll have to take her to the last location her parents resided.”

A purple mist convalesced into his shape, and the ghostly mesmer stepped towards her. “Close your eyes, and I’ll transfer the information.”

“Ah, yes, but will that put me in any risk of frying my brain? I am rather fond of it.”

“If you want answers, you’ll have to do as I ask.”

“Well, would whatever ancient seal you’ve got on yourself fry you?”

The flickering figure smiled. “Not while I’m in this state.  I found a loophole where if I do not physically tell anyone what I know, it considers it no more harmful than a dream. And before you ask, I’ve left my body in a secure location, so you don’t need to worry about my connection being severed.”

“Oh, I would have known if you’d died. Necromancy and all that. Adam would have told me, too.” She tapped the ancient skull’s polished bone. “Give a focus like him a century or two and they’ll absorb enough magic and knowledge to become rather chatty.”

“Gryphon?” Myrie’s groggy voice broke into their conversation. She rubbed her eyes and squinted blearily at the transparent figure. “What’re you doing here?”

“Why are you up?” Nettle hissed, reaching to grab her arm and drag her back to her makeshift cot. “The grown-ups are talking and you’re still recovering; go to bed.”

“Just because I’m short doesn’t mean that I’m not an adult,” Myrie scowled, pulling her arm back. “And just because you look full-grown doesn’t mean that you’re older than me. You probably were born only two years ago.”

“Three,” the sylvari sniffed contemptuously.

“Nettle, it doesn’t matter much that she’s here,” Gryphon stated simply. “It just means that she’ll need to be careful with what she’ll learn. Where’s Sylfia?”

The thief jutted her thumb over her shoulder. “Nettle tried patching her up and using some medicinal brandy on her wounds.”

“She drank the brandy.” The necromancer frowned. “I should have known better that the word ‘medicinal’ would not deter her. Honestly, I think she’d drink alcohol from Orr if given the chance. At least she won’t wake for a while.”

“Good; she seems to be trustworthy, but I’ve no doubt that she’d be less than discreet with this information, especially if she were in her cups.” The regal figure straightened, taking a moment to look intently at both women. “Now, you must realize that you are to speak of this to no-one but me until Selana has recovered her memories. Do you swear to keep the knowledge of what you will learn a secret?”

They did, and the mesmer proceeded to tell the tale of Selana’s sister, her family's position in the Shining Blade, and the reason behind her fainting spells.

“Remember,” he warned, “she’s already showing signs of instability. Therefore, you are charged with reporting to Nettle,” he said, addressing Myrie, “if you see something extremely unusual or unnerving. She will relay her information to me.” He turned back towards the necromancer, who was smiling easily and swaying as if to a song in her head. “And Nettle,” he said coldly, an edge in his voice, “if you keep drinking Selana’s blood, rest assured that I will break your mind until you have the mindpower of a carved chair.”

Myrie felt a chill run down her spine at the warning, but Nettle only sighed. “You don't need to remind me of your little seal, Lord Radwing.  Its buzzing is a constant reminder of your ever-watching awareness. So, where will we be heading next?”

“Selana’s parents stayed in a small safehouse after leaving her sister with the Pale Tree to try keeping Selana as safe as possible from any political or other fallout. When the White Mantle found and killed them, they were buried there per their request. The house is doubtless in disrepair, but within it should lie the secrets to unfolding Selena’s mind.” His ghostly eyes blinked. “I’d best return to my body; daylight is coming, and bandits are most likely lurking around where I last dozed off.”

As his hazy form began to trail away in the mist, a thought popped into Myrie's head. “Wait!” she whisper-shouted, “maybe we’ll find Selana’s sister when we’re traveling to the lodge. What was her name?”

The phantom turned to glance back at her and sighed. 

“Her name was Llumin. Travel safely, be careful, and keep Selana safe for all of our sakes."


	29. Arc 2, Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selana finds her parents' old hideout. Myrie questions everyone's sanity.

 Myrie slumped against one of the lodge's blackened walls. “So….Flame-head had a sister.”

“Correct.”

“Somehow I can't quite imagine what that would have been like if she had grown up with her."  The thief gave a dry laugh. "I mean, Selana’s nice and all, but I think if she took my stuff, I’d just let her keep it.”

“You find her intimidating?”

“Don’t you?”

“We’re all corpses in the end,” the necromancer shrugged. “Some are dead sooner than others, so if you already think of them as food for the greater life-cycle…”

Myrie's stomach turned.  “You know, I wish I hadn’t asked.”

“Hush! She’s waking up.”

The elementalist sat up and glared suspiciously at them.

“You don’t think she heard us, do you?” Myrie hissed nervously.

“The winds are couriers to all but the most subtle of whispers,” Selana said, narrowing her eyes at them. “But as to what you were discussing before I woke, no, I have no idea what you were saying. Why?” She stood slowly, grimacing at the pain from some of her deeper wounds. “Is it important?”

“Oh, definitely,” Nettle chirped. Myrie’s heart jolted in terror at the responding look Selana gave them. “But all in due time,” the sylvari finished, a smile spreading across her lips.

This crazy cabbage is going to get me killed,  Myrie thought, closing her eyes and fiddling with the chain around her neck.

“What did you discover from the Mantle?” Selana asked Nettle, leaning heavily on her staff. “Anything useful?”

“Yes, actually,” Myrie replied, cutting off whatever Nettle had opened her mouth to say.  “We’ve found out where your parents’ last resting place might be.”

“Resting place?”

Myrie immediately regretted her choice of words.

“I mean, where they might be in hiding,” she corrected, biting her tongue. Maybe she should have let Nettle speak. “You know, place of rest.”

“Oi’m not gettin’ _my_  rest,” came an extremely-groggy voice.

“Ah, there’s Sylfia,” Nettle beamed and spoke through clenched teeth. “How are you feeling after drinking all of my very hard-to-maintain medicinal brandy?”

“Loike there should’ve been more.” Although she had been closer to the combat’s center and sustained more blows, the warrior appeared to be in better shape than Selana. She closed one eye and scowled at them. “Oi don’t like the looks of this,” she grumbled. “You’ve all got those 'we're going somewhere again' faces on."  She sighed and raised herself to her feet.  "Where we headin’ now?”

“Not too far, actually,” Nettle hummed, packing her loose supplies and rummaging through the corpses’ pockets for any useful materials. “There’s a little place down the road where we might be able to find some more information.” She glanced up at Selana, whose wary, dazed glare bored suspiciously into her. She smiled easily.  “You’d best get ready,” she purred, lifting her pack over her shoulder and heading towards the door. Before she exited, she turned halfway back and remarked, “You know, this many bodies is going to attract unwanted attention. We’ve already got what information we need. Selana, would you have any qualms about destroying this … _cozy_ lodge and its occupants? I don’t think the hunters would mind too much about building a new one that doesn’t have the rot of Mantle assassins about it.”

Dull blue eyes flickered towards her through a thick haze of rage. “It would be my pleasure.”

 

Myrie jogged quickly to avoid the falling pieces of wood and other debris that rained from the burning building as she ran after the other women. Despite their wounds, they all were keeping a remarkable pace.

“Couldn’t you have waited until we were further away from the lodge? Given us more time to, oh, I don’t know, _survive_?”

“The less evidence the Mantle are able to infer from the bodies, the better,” Selana replied flatly. Myrie was silent; she had seen the grim pleasure with which the elementalist had lit the fire.

“Fair enough,” she replied. When they had reached a sufficient distance, they stopped running, and Sylfia paused to stare at the blaze.

“You don’t seem afraid,” Nettle remarked. There was a hint of surprise in her voice.

“Oi can’t avoid fire forever," she shrugged.  "I might not like it, but it’s there, so I’d best take my medicine and get a good look.”

For that moment, the world centered around the one defiant sylvari staring at her mortal enemy. She slowly pulled out a flask, raised it to the pyre, and drank.

“So, too, must that old life of fear be destroyed,” she murmured softly. She turned back towards the others and walked alongside them. “Perhaps you, too, will have a new life made, Selana,” she said with a contented smile.

The elementalist’s returning grin was humorless and dark. “Perhaps,” she said.

The group continued their walk in silence.

 

Gryphon watched them leave from a hidden vantage point until they were out of sight. He grimaced; from what little he had been able to tell, Selana’s mind was fracturing at a rate that was most concerning, and her recent treatment had been barely enough to restrain it. Her sense of confusion and fear were evolving into a vicious storm of suspicion and hatred. She already suspected that Myrie and Nettle knew something- he regretted informing them of the situation, despite its potential for future aid- and her usual clear-headedness was waning. If her stability wasn’t restored soon, he had little doubt that her stubborn determination would cause her to turn on her companions. He offered a prayer to the gods that her mind would be preserved long enough to prevent any future, unnecessary deaths.  
  He would already have a hard enough time explaining the loss of his spies to the Master of Whispers.

 

“This must have been really something, once,” Myrie sighed to herself. Although nature had begun to break and reclaim it into the soil, the cottage still evoked an atmosphere of calm solitude and the safety of family. A protective air lingered about the place.

“My word, the ghosts here certainly don’t like me,” Nettle chuckled, waving at a seemingly-blank clearing. “But they don’t mind you, Selana.”

The elementalist walked heedlessly on.  “Unless they have information on my parents, we need to keep moving.”

“Oh, look! That one’s making himself visible. Hello!”

“Turn back, all who are not of this household's blood,” the armored specter boomed, drawing his sword and aiming it at the group. “There is nothing here for you but sorrow and pain. The torment of those who lived and died affects all who enter.”

Selana summoned a spear of lightning and stepped in front of her followers. “I know these women well. Stand aside.”

The apparition’s eyes widened. “You! You should have come sooner; they’ve been waiting!” He stepped to the side. “Please, enter.”

The group moved forward. The ghost brandished his sword and snarled at the plant-women and thief. “Not you!” it howled.

Myrie stepped back and spun on her heel.  “All righty then, I’ll just head back home to Div’s and-”

“No; if they don’t enter, I won’t come in."  Selana reached back and grabbed Myrie's collar without looking.  "I have seen and been through too much to believe that I can simply walk in and find the answers I need.”

The ghost’s face darkened in frustration. “This was not the plan.”

Nettle shrugged. “Sometimes the best ones require alteration. We mean her no harm.”

“You have drunk her blood and caused her pain; you have harmed her already.”

“A necessary evil,” she replied, sounding genuinely remorseful. “How else would I have known that her memories are suppressed?”

“What are you talking about?” Selana released Myrie and glared at the necromancer, who smiled cheerily.  Myrie internally screamed.

“Memory suppression? Oh, don’t mind me, just teasing.”

Sylfia rubbed her temples. “Can we just get in there?”

The ghost’s eyes blazed with indignation. “A drunkard? How dare you interrupt the sanctity of this home with-“

“This sylvari has proven herself to be a loyal and honest companion. All have my trust- or at least, my allegiance,” the elementalist stated. “They are here for my safety.”

The specter’s face softened, a sad smile on his face. “Child,” he said, sheathing his sword, “you have never needed to fear this place. Very well. Enter. The other guards have disabled the safeguards; they are no longer necessary.”

As they walked into the building, Selana heard a whisper as gentle as the spring breeze.

“Welcome home.”


	30. Arc 2, Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selana discovers the truth despite everyone's efforts.

 

Dust bunnies swirled in the breezes from their entry. A plain, empty table was in the middle of the room, and the nearby pantries had obviously once been plentifully-stocked. Vines had crept through the window, winding through and down the washbasin that sat on the counter below the cupboards and perfuming the air with delicate blooms.

“This is obviously the dining area,” Myrie murmured. “They have pretty good tastes in decorating.”

Selana was silent, staring at the disarray. “Why is it so uncared for?” she whispered. “Where are the servants and guards?”

“Let’s keep moving,” Sylfia huffed. Her nose twitched, and the resulting sneeze caused a braid of dried flowers to disintegrate.

“No one’s home,” the elementalist murmured. “No one’s waiting.”

“Maybe they had to leave quickly and are now returning,” Myrie suggested hopefully.

No one believed her.

 

The other rooms were equally-empty, although there were some signs of former occupants and their tastes. The master bedroom had a tarnished silver mirror standing in it, and on the walls were ancient torches, flickering with soft lights from enchanted flames which never had gone out.

“It’s like the Ascalonian flames,” Myrie said. She cautiously held her hand close to one of them. “Except they’re not hot."

“They’re illusions,” noted the necromancer. “Amazingly well-maintained, but old.”

They continued their journey through the cottage, admiring the various architecture and horticultural remnants. Selana was becoming visibly more upset.

“Why aren’t they here?” she muttered. “The Mantle said they were here.”

“The garden’s outside,” Sylfia said. “I can sense the old cultivation, but most o’ the plants have grown wild.” Her head tilted to one side, black-red leaves shining dully in the sunset. “Except for three of ‘em. There’s something special about those ones. Magical, Oi’d say.”

“Then let’s look outside! If they’ve just arrived, there might be a path they’re taking. Maybe those trees are checkpoints.” Myrie’s falsely-hopeful voice did nothing to dispel the thick aura of gloom that was condensing around the group.

“They’re not here,” Selana whispered. No one heard her as they walked outside.


	31. Arc 2, Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is revealed -- and Selana learns something new.

The garden was in disrepair. Wild flowers mingled with vegetables, and trellises became casualties of the greenery’s war on containment. The scents of musky earth and spicy vines lingered in the air, swirling with the odors of nutty vegetables and ethereal flowers, their heady smells assailing the nostrils with a fragrant bouquet.

“This must have been beautiful once,” Nettle sighed. “It reminds me of the Grove.”

Selana walked slowly through the plants, gently bending stalks and brushing aside blossoms and immature fruit as she walked towards a distant wall, where two enormous trees stood their ground. The garden’s reckless breakout from its boundaries had not touched or come near them; in fact, the area around the trees was clear- a semicircle of low moss and smooth earth. She walked into the clearing, her steps reverent. There was something about it that was almost holy. She looked near the trunks, and her breath caught.

Three engraved stones rested beneath the trunks. The oak held one in its roots and the willow cradled another. Between them was a smooth, small round rock, almost a pebble, which was surrounded by delicate blossoms of red iris.

The elementalist knelt, reaching with shaking hands towards the stones. The oak's was granite - reliable, steady, and subtle in its beauty.

“Lord Arcon Firestone,” it read. “Devoted to Queen and Country, his love for his gods and family knew no bounds.”

“Father,” she whispered. Her trembling fingers raised the stone to her forehead. She exhaled a shuddering breath, lowering it to her lips and pressing a kiss onto its cool surface before placing it back on its natural pedestal. She reached towards the willow, heart breaking and hoping that she would not read the name she knew was there.

“Lady Deirdre Firestone. Lovely in mind, heart, and form. An inspiration to the failing and devoted mother to her children.”

Selana paused. “Children?” she wondered. She reached for the third stone, so delicate and small. She only hesitated briefly before she read it.

“Llumin Firestone. The light of hope we wished to see live to illuminate the world. You were taken too soon. May the gods have mercy on us.”

Her body shivered. Shards of her dreams came hissing back- the laughter, the fear, the hope, the loss.

Loss…loss…loss….children… Children!

“Sister…?” she whispered. Her eyes flew open.

She remembered.

 

Her mother was beautiful. Her father was handsome. They both were radiant on the day they told Selana that she was going to be a big sister. The newest member was going to be born soon; her mother had waited until she and her husband had returned from duty to announce it to their daughter.

“It wouldn’t have been right for us to tell her before we returned -- to possibly have her lose three people in her life,” Dierdre had told Samuel. “If I …if _we_ had died out there… she would have lost more than just us. We had to make sure she’d be able to look forward to a new life instead of another loss.” Her mother caught sight of the young Selana eavesdropping. She’d been shooed out of the sunroom, leaving her confused and curious. Later, she had dismissed the conversation. Her sibling was coming soon; she hoped it would be a sister.

 

It _was_ a sister. She was beautiful, and her parents were happy. She was a symbol of something new; a return to life, to family, to home and hope. She was a light after a long night.

“Llumin,” her mother whispered, cradling the soft, pink, wrinkled lump of new human to her chest. “Our lovely light of hope.” Her father kissed her mother’s forehead before bending over to kiss the new baby.

“You’re a sister,” he told Selana. The girl’s face was a halo of awe and joy.

“Can I hold her?” she asked reverently.

“Not yet. She needs to sleep.”

The child was quiet for a moment. “Can I sleep in your room to make sure she’s okay?”

“Mommy will be with her, and the servants are on guard in case the bad people come.”

Selana looked from the infant to her mother.  Her voice shook. “Will you go to fight them again?”

Her parents’ hearts broke. Her father scooped her into his arms.

“No, sweetie,” he said softly. “Mommy and I are staying here now. The only reason we’d leave is if the Queen herself showed up on our doorstep. And even then, she’d have to convince us that there was something _very_ wrong in Kryta before we left.”

"Promise?"  
  
"We promise."

Selana giggled as he showered her head with kisses.

 

Two days passed before the laughter was stilled. A palpable fear and heaviness lurked around the manor like an unwanted visitor. Baby Llumin had gone turned from a bright-eyed, happy infant into a sickly waif, whimpering and crying softly. A hushed chaos slithered about the room as her parents conversed with the servants. Strange people and priests came and went, but none of them could bring back Llumin’s health. Finally, an old friend who had been visiting returned from one of his trips with another priest and a final hope.

“Arcon,” the man stated quietly, “you know that I would not say this lightly.  I hold you in the highest regard.  We are battle-brothers, but while we may have defeated much of our enemy on the field, I do not believe the war is over. Llumin’s sickness is no accident.”

Her father’s eyes blazed. “We killed off their Justicars and drove the rest into hiding. How would the White Mantle have been so bold as to attack her in Divinity's Reach?”

“Examplar Anise suspects that they have sleeper cells in the city; it's the likeliest explanation for what we're seeing. Priest Veratas has confirmed that the magic he sensed around your daughter matches the decaying curse the Mantle had used on their prisoners."  Gryphon Radwing couldn't meet his gaze. "There’s nothing we can do for her that will guarantee her survival.” He placed a hand on her father’s shoulder. “I'm sorry, Arcon.  Your daughter is dying.”

An anguished cry tore from his lips. In the adjoining room, Selana stopped playing and tiptoed around the corner to peer inside the hallway with wide, fearful eyes.  

“There is hope, though,” the lord continued firmly, shaking Arcon’s arm lightly to bring him back. “Take heart. It will not be easy. You might never see her again, and you do, she will not be the same as she is now.”

“Just tell me, Gryphon,” Arcon begged. “Let me know what needs to be done.”  
  
"You are willing to take the risk?"  
  
"I am willing to do anything."

 

The priest and mesmer had told her parents that the only cure for Llumin’s curse dwelt within the Grove, home of the recently-bloomed sylvari race. Even though the plant-people were less than twenty years old, they spoke and moved with the wisdom and grace of the ancients. Selana was entranced with their alien forms, so similar yet so different. The sylvari, in turn, seemed curious about them. One of them introduced herself as Caithe, firstborn of the sylvari, and met them at the asura gate that led from Lion's Arch.

“The Pale Mother has never had to deal with anything like this,” she cautioned, her smooth, low voice a balm to their ears. “But she says that if it is successful, your daughter will live. Whether or not this succeeds, there will be a steep price.”

Her father’s jaw clenched, and her mother’s eyes sparked with determination. “We have already gone through hell,” Dierdre said, holding the baby close. “We will do whatever it takes to save her.”

The sylvari tilted her head curiously at them.  “You would not have come as late as you had unless this was your last resort. That is good,” she said. “Follow me. The Pale Mother will seek audience with you in the upper chamber.”

 

Selana remembered the beautiful tree-woman with her body and dress that were formed from delicate, golden petals that glowed with the soft light of the rising sun. She remembered Countess Anise standing nearby, warning that any outbreak of this information could be regarded as heresy by some of the other, more powerful families in Divinity’s Reach.

“They could see it as an affront to Dwayna for squandering her life. Others might see it as robbing Grenth of his due. Still some may interpret this act as blasphemy against Melandru.”

“And what about you, Countess?” Her father’s voice was strained and taut with anger, daring her to speak against him. “If you had a daughter, would you not do the same? What would you not do to save her life?”

“Do not misinterpret my caution as judgement, Agent,” she replied coolly. “Know that you and your family have been invaluable to the Crown. All I ask is that you remain vigilant; once the Mantle learn that their plans have been foiled, it will only be a matter of time before they strike again.”

“They cannot hurt me any more than they already have,” he replied angrily. The towering avatar of the Pale Tree turned to face him, her gaze soft.

“I am sorry for this,” she said, a sympathetic smile on her beautiful features. “I, too, know the pain of watching your children suffer. I and the menders will do what we can.”

 

She remembered the reassuring words of Lord Radwing as she watched her parents take her baby sister towards the Pale Tree’s hollow at the base of her massive roots. She remembered watching in horror as thin vines rose from the ground and snaked over her sister, some digging into her flesh, others winding around her like a green coffin. She remembered screaming at the sylvari to stop, at her parents to take her from this beautiful, horrible place and bring her sister back home to the healers. She remembered kicking and squirming past the young Seraph escort, Logan Thackeray, as she rushed forward to save her sister from being consumed by those terrible, twining vines.

She remembered Gryphon Radwing scooping her up in his arms and walking away.

She remembered that he told what he was doing was for her own good.

She forgot everything after he told her this.

She forgot that when her parents died a year later, she did not even shed a tear. At nine years old on a dark, lonely evening, she had looked long and hard at the potions and poisons in her parents’ locked chest and wondered which one she could take to join her family in the afterlife.

She forgot that Gryphon had locked away her memories.

 

Selana’s sobs slowed down, turning into choking, shuddering breaths. Only a minute had passed since the locks on her mind had finally broken. The waves of information were almost too much, as if her consciousness was drowning in the sea of old memories. She struggled to sift through the new knowledge that flooded in, and her mind strained under their weight.

A breeze sighed through the trees of her parents’ graves.

“Selana,” her mother’s voice whispered. “I am so sorry, honey.”

She looked up in confusion, eyes widening as the spectral forms of her parents appeared.

Her father’s regal ghost smiled sadly. “Remember how we had said that the only thing which would have torn us away was the Queen?”

“She had one final mission for us. It was a splinter cell,” her mother explained.  She reached with trembling hands to smooth down Selana’s disheveled hair. Her phantasmal touch was cold, like a fog bank. “We thought they were the ones who had cursed Llumin, and we were called out to track them down before they could do any further harm.”

“But there were more than we had thought. They were expecting us,” her father continued. “I had thought that with the loss of your sister, we had suffered enough by their standards. I thought we could live in peace. We just had to make sure that they wouldn’t come near you again.”

“We were outnumbered.  Someone had betrayed us. Gryphon had sent his mind out to scout the area ahead, but it wasn’t enough. The night had covered the more cleverly-hidden traps, and our undercover mission turned into a suicide run.”

“I tried to protect your mother and snipe the cell's leaders before we were killed. Instead, their necromancers weakened my grip on my weapon, and the most I did was shoot one of them in their shoulder. I was killed first for my audacity.”  He motioned to the dark stain that covered his neck and stomach.  "They at least made it quick."

“You were so brave, love,” her mother smiled.  Ghostly tears ran down her face. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I failed you.  I failed our family, and my failure to see the signs of a trap caused your death. I have every right to be ashamed,” he whispered angrily.

“But look at who returned home.”  She reached to hold his arm. "Not all was lost, love."  He was silent for a moment. 

“This wasn’t really our home, Dede.”

“It was our field house,” she agreed.  She turned back to Selana. “Whenever we had a mission outside of Divinity’s Reach, we’d stay here. We hoped to eventually turn it into a retreat where we could go in case it got to be too chaotic in the city.” Her voice trailed off, and her lips quivered. “Oh, Arc,” she sniffled, pride and sorrow mingling in her voice. “Look how beautiful she is. Our little girl is all grown up.”

“You forgot us, though, didn’t you?” her father asked, bending to look into her face. “You were so young…”

“I couldn’t remember anything.” Selana finally found her voice again. “You would think that I would have remembered your deaths, or even Llumin's."

“Llumin?” Her parents looked at each other, confusion soon replaced with understanding.

“Oh, love,” her mother smiled. “Even though there was so much taken from you, we can tell you that there is one thing which remains.”

Selana looked confusedly at her parents. “She has her own gravestone.  Why would it be here unless she died?”

“Her physical death was true. She died to our world when she went into the Dream.” her mother continued. “But Llumin's mind was still intact when she was taken.”

Her companions had remained silent during their speech, but at this, Myrie spoke up.

“Hold up; what you're saying is...?”

“Llumin is alive,” Arcon said. “She has been reborn as a sylvari.  We didn’t learn until after our deaths that the Pale Tree's ritual was a success.”

Dierdre smiled sadly.  “She was just an infant when she went in; twenty years have passed, and it's unlikely that she knows anything of us or of you.  But now you know.  Your memories have been restored, and the truth has been revealed. All we ask is one last thing before we move on into the Mists.”

Selana closed her mouth and looked from one ghost to another.  “Before _you_ move on?  How can _I_ move on? I just found you again! Why…?”

Nettle cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Lord and Lady Firestone, but you have been waiting for twenty years, correct?”

The ghosts whirled on her, eyes blazing, and rose to tower above her. “Why have you been drinking the blood of our daughter?” their voices boomed.  The branches of their trees cracked with rage.  Myrie yelped and leaped out the way of a falling branch that fell mere inches from where Nettle stood.

The necromancer rolled her eyes heavenward. “Why does everyone bring this up? It’s not as if I had killed or poisoned her.”

“Well, I can tell you that my parents wouldn’t be terribly thrilled if they found that out about me, either," Myrie said, slowly unfreezing from her terrified stance.  "It’s a bit of a personal invasion."

“Oh, is that all? Well, terribly sorry. Anyhow, twenty years, yes?”

“The passage of time has been stated often enough.  Do not touch our daughter again, or we will make sure to haunt you from the Mists,” they thundered.

“I’m not sure how threatening that’s supposed to be, since I will always be able to sense or see you,” she sneered.

Lord Firestone’s ghost gave a smirk. “We could always follow you and ruin your experiments,” he said pleasantly.

The necromancer’s eyes widened in terror, and she went silent.

“I’m sorry,” Selana said finally. “I suppose it would be rather selfish of me to force you to stay. What is it you need me to do?”

The ghosts lowered themselves and turned back to her.  “Find your sister. You must join forces with her and face the Elder Dragons' destruction together. The Undead Dragon of Orr is growing stronger, and if you do not find a guild loyal and determined enough to face it, Zhaitan will destroy all that everyone has fought to defend.”

“Do not let our deaths be in vain, Selana,” her mother begged. “Remember that we love you.”

“I will, and thank you.”

Arcon held up a hand.  “Before you go, there is a stone buried under your mother's gravestone. Take it with you; our family has used its powers for generations, and we believe that there is something there which you must see.”

Dierdre smiled.  “More like some _one_. That stone acts as a portal to where an echo of your namesake, the first of our house, is bound. Speak to her, and she will help you begin the journey to unlock the secrets of our bloodline.”

Selana looked from one to the other.  “Would I be able to take anyone with me?”

“None that are not related, but you can bring back any knowledge and weapons she may give you, and they can use them as you see fit.”

Selana knelt by her mother’s tree and dug for a few inches below the ground before finding a smooth, blue stone which flickered with ancient magic.

"The portal stone is attuned to you and anyone who shares our blood," Dierdre explained.  “Once you find your sister, use it. There are items there which our family has used and stored for centuries. They will prove invaluable to you as you fight against the dragons.”

“Llumin is only now beginning to wake from the Dream," Arcon said. "In death, we have maintained a connection with her, even if we did not reveal ourselves.”

“Remember that she may not know who you are,” her mother cautioned. “That was the price Caithe had warned us about.  Do not expect there to be any tearstained reunions.”

“I believe we've told her all we can," Arcon said. He turned to his daughter and smiled. "Go, love. We are dead and can no longer help you, but your sister still lives. Find her.”

The ghosts joined hands. “We will always be proud of you,” her mother whispered, bending Selana's head to kiss her red hair. “Never forget that.”

"I won't," Selana whispered.  "I love you, too."  She looked up at them and smiled through her tears.  They stepped forward to give her a final hug and wrapped their arms around her for a final time before their forms disappeared in the breeze. Dusk had fallen.

 

Gryphon Radwing waited for the ghosts to fade away before he stepped quietly from behind the cottage door and cleared his throat.  Selana turned to look at him in shock.  "I'm sorry."  His voice cracked.  "I would have told you earlier if I could, but your mind would have broken if we hadn’t taken action,” he said. “Countess Anise insisted that it was for the greater health of her and the kingdom. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never would have-”

She went over to him and gave him a hug. "I forgive you," she whispered.

His voice broke, and he gently hugged her back. “Thank you, Selana,” he said.

They broke their embrace and wiped at their faces.

“My parents left me with one last mission,” she stated.

“Llumin,” guessed the mesmer.  He wiped at his eyes. She nodded.

“She supposedly is already reborn. How are we supposed to meet her?”

"That's pretty obvious, I would hope," Sylfia shrugged, cracking stiff shoulders.  "Your parents ghosts said she was emerging from the Dream, yeah?  By the time we get to the Grove, she'll be out of there and among the waking world.  Don't know if or how her Wyld Hunt would send her, but if we want to have a chance of finding her soon, we'd best hurry."   
  
Selana smiled; already the winds were whirling around at her unspoken command.  "I think we can do that."  

END OF ARC 2.


	32. Arc 3, Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin awakes in the Dream.

She was formless, weightless- barely a conscious thought among the minds around her that chattered curiously at her presence.

“Who is this?” one of them asked.

“What is this?” another wondered.

She felt their stares like probing knives. She was an outsider who did not belong. An urge from somewhere deep in her belly rose up.

Protect me! it wailed.   
  
The consciousness curled around herself, trying to make herself as small as possible. Where was she? Fear and confusion tore at her mind. There was too much sound, too many voices. She wanted….what did she want?   
The consciousness reached out to see what she could find. As she did, she noticed something strange: A shard of white bone jutted out from torn, pale skin that, despite its damage, did not bleed. She let out a cry of shock as thick cords of tough, woody vines quickly grew from it. Slender, golden veins sprouted from the fused wooden whirls before nestling into a layer of thick, succulent leaves. A final layer of long, soft leaves covered the plant-like bone and muscle. She stared at the regrown arm in surprise and flexed it experimentally.

“She’s changing! I can see her now,” came a new voice, friendly and warm.

The consciousness blinked in surprise. She felt the loamy soil beneath her feet and the gentle, warm breeze that brought the scents of damp, living leaves and heady flowers. Whatever transformation that had started at her arm had enveloped her fully in this new form. Sap instead of blood flowed smoothly through her veins; the memory of a once-pulsing heart faded with its beat and with the breath that filled her lungs. She caught a glimpse of herself in a translucent panel of something that wasn’t quite glass. A gentle, regal face with high cheekbones; hair of willowy, dark indigo leaves; skin the pale tan color of sandalwood; and wide, sky blue-eyes stared back at her. She looked at her new body and realized with a flush of embarrassment that she was currently unclothed.   
She grabbed the clothes that materialized on a toadstool and paused. To her side, another blue-skinned plant-person – sylvari, her mind whispered- pulled on her own garments with practiced smoothness. The sandalwood sylvari carefully mirrored her movements, fitting the clothes over her own skin. When she was finished, she frowned at her exposed stomach. These weren’t quite what she had wished for. She didn’t see how well they would protect her if she had to fight.

She blinked in surprise at the thought. Why would she have to fight?

She looked around and noticed that she was in a verdant clearing, surrounded by other sylvari. Some had green skin, others yellow, still more were pink or blue or any other color of the rainbow. All wore different types of clothes or armor.

“Hello!” one of them waved. Her hair formed from auburn leaves that grew until they reached the top of her head, where they fluttered down like a ponytail. She jogged over cheerily and extended a hand. “My name’s Donni! Donni Lynn! What’s yours?”

“Llumin.” She was surprised at how easily the name flowed from her tongue. She reached her hand out awkwardly, mimicking the other sylvari’s movement. Donni grabbed and shook it vigorously.

“What’s your talent?” she asked cheerily. “Mine’s fighting.”

“Fighting? Like, with fists?” Llumin was becoming increasingly-concerned that this was all a strange dream. She wished she would wake up soon.

“Yes! Well, sometimes. I like using magic, too.” Donni beamed as she released Llumin's hand, her smooth face widening with her grin. “I’m a guardian!”

“What’s that?”

“A fighter who uses magic,” she replied, as if the answer was obvious. “So, what’s your specialty?”

Llumin was quiet. This was all terribly confusing. She imagined that somewhere, there was a place with delicious fruit trees, and singing. Maybe a minstrel….

“Oh, wow!” Donni’s gasp broke her from her thoughts. “A minstrel! But he wasn’t here before.”

Llumin was as surprised as the guardian to see the image of a human with a mandolin, singing horribly off-key. As soon as she lost her focus, he disappeared in a cloud of purple butterflies that flew away on a nonexistent breeze.

  
Donni’s eyes widened along with her smile. “A mesmer!” she declared. “You, Llumin, are a mesmer!”

Her brows furrowed. “I am?”

“Yes! You made your thoughts real! Only mesmers can do that.”

Llumin hummed thoughtfully to herself. “I don't think it was quite real.  I wonder how that happens.”

“Who knows?” Donni chuckled. She turned around. “Do you hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“Well, maybe you can't _hear_ it, but you might _feel_ it. Your Wyld Hunt. Like a sort of buzzing in your bones.”

Llumin concentrated, trying desperately to concentrate on hearing or feeling anything unusual.

“Yes,” she said, eyes widening. “It’s like a bee or something. Whirring on the inside of my head, right by the back of my skull.” Her long, pointed ears twitched. “And there’s a sound, too! A trumpet.”

Donni gave a low hum of curiosity. “Mine’s more like drums,” she said slowly. “Must be our Hunts are different.”

Llumin smiled. “Must be.”

Donni suddenly turned around. “I am called!” she cried. A hammer of living wood and stone materialized in her hand, and she brandished it, charging forward towards some bright light in the distance. “Wish me luck, Llumin!”

The sylvari stood dumbfounded, arm half-raised in a confused wave. “Good luck,” she said softly, watching her fade into the distance. The omnipresent light that diffused the clearing was brightening.

“It must be noon,” yawned a green-skinned sylvari with maroon leaves for hair. “Best get back to learning.” He noticed Llumin and smiled, beckoning her over.

“Come on, follow me! Ventari’s giving out more advice!”

So much to figure out, she thought, and followed him towards the greater opening.

 

She absorbed the information from the old, white-haired centaur, Ventari, on her newly-discovered race, as best she could, learning about the seed of the Pale Tree, which was planted by a battle-weary human named Ronan, and the centaur, a reformed warlord, who stood before them now.

An olive-skinned sylvari with leafy branches for hair raised his hand.

“Excuse me, Ventari,” he asked. “If you are, as you claim, dead, how can we see you?”

The ancient centaur laughed. “An excellent question, but you needn’t worry. You are in the Dream; you are not dead. It is here that you will be prepared for your life in the waking world of Tyria. I’m not entirely sure how I became part of it, but I think that the Dream allows me to exist in this plane for the sole purpose of teaching you before you wake.” He raised his muzzle and snuffled the air, black eyes narrowing.

“Danger comes. The fight before your birth arrives.”

“Fight?” cried a large-eyed sylvari with a head like a mushroom-cap. “Why should we need to fight to live?”

“Because if you do not survive here, there is no way that you will be able to last in Tyria.  The world is as dangerous as it is beautiful.”

The saplings were silent. From what they had heard and what shadows of that place they had experienced, to miss out on such an opportunity would be a tragedy.

“The memories of your brothers and sisters will aid you,” he reassured them. “I fear to say that there are those who have turned to Nightmare, infecting this Dream with horrors, terrors, and unimaginable cruelty. Ignore those whispers, my children. Dawn is just a heartbeat away.”

With that, the old centaur stood and looked down at them. A smile wrinkled his face.

“Who would have thought that such noble creatures could have come from such a small seed that I found in a cave?” He chuckled, a strange mixture of a man’s laugh and a horse’s nicker, and then he disappeared.

The green-skinned sylvari who had led her to Ventari grinned dryly, loading his pistols with some bullets from a pouch.  While others milled about in confusion, he worked with purpose.

“Well,” he said as he closed the bag, “let’s go see what Tyria is like for ourselves.”

 

Elmfrond, as his name turned out to be, was a fairly-decent shot. Although he seemed to possess very little skill with magic, he was acrobatic and lithe, dodging the swipes and bites of thorny Nightmare hounds and disappearing in the shadows when need be. Llumin envied him and the ease with which he quickly flowed into battle. Whereas the thief needed to simply listen to his instincts and reflexes, the mesmer found it more difficult to attune her mind to her surroundings and force others to view her reality. She stood beside two illusions of herself, facing down one of the last remaining hounds. Thick, black spines arched over its dead-wood body, and it gave a wicked snarl as it approached her.

“There, there,” she shivered, backing away from its advancing steps. “You don’t really need to fight me…”

The hound growled, and its yellow eyes glowed. With a savage leap, its jaws clamped down on the sylvari’s slender throat - and it shattered into shimmering fragments. The hound yelped as shards of illusion bit into its mind, writhing in agony before Llumin finished it off. She was breathing heavily.

Her guide, on the other hand, seemed almost unfazed. “That wasn’t so bad,” Elmfrond chortled. “I can feel myself…floating, I suppose. Do you think that’s a normal feeling after battle?”

Llumin’s eyes widened. “You’re fading!” she yelped.

“Oh? Somehow I feel more alive.” His voice and image began to grow more faint. Before disappearing completely, a look of realization spread across his face. “I’m waking up! I’ll see you soon, Llumin!” The last she saw of him was his excited grin. Even that faded into the mist of the Dream.

She sighed. She felt terribly alone. Why hadn’t she woken up yet? A rustling noise caught her attention, and she tilted her head curiously at it. A bush was trembling violently. Her brows furrowed in concern. There didn’t seem to be anything caught in it, so why was-?

With a powerful thrash, the bush, followed by a thick, branching wing-finger, erupted from the ground. The wing was attached to the body of a muscular plant-dragon with teeth like thorns the size of trees and eyes that blazed with hunger. It towered over her, lips curled in a sneer before it loosed a shriek that sent a terrifying chill down her spine.

Will I die before I wake? she wondered. The massive beast ripped free from the ground and snarled. To her horror, she realized the reason that she could not wake up: She would first have to defeat a dragon. She swallowed her fear, grasped her blade more strongly, and braced herself for battle.


	33. Arc 3, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrie and crew stop to get drinks in Lion's Arch before arriving at the Grove. Myrie reveals her two biggest regrets during "bonding time", suggested by Nettle.

 

“Is Lion’s Arch always this busy?” Myrie asked, ducking behind Selana and keeping her eyes close to her pockets.

“Not always,” Nettle replied. She smiled warmly at the oncoming traffic, which seemed to move them out of their path more than Sylfia’s groggy glower.

“Why is it,” the warrior grumbled, “that when I give people my most intimidating glare, they don’t pay me any heed, but when you smile, they scurry right off?”

“They’re used to glares,” Nettle said. “Smiles tend to disturb them.”

“Especially when they’re from you,” Myrie muttered. She zipped out from behind Selana, having noticed that the crowd had thinned. “Can’t we rest for a bit? I’m parched.”

Sylfia perked up. “Did someone say drinks?”

Selana shot Myrie a glower. She eventually relented to everyone's unspoken wish and turned to Nettle. “Where would you recommend?”

She beamed. “I know a place. Come on!”

 

The four women were crowded around a dingy, grease-stained table. Sylfia had gleefully ordered several drinks, downing them in short succession upon their arrival.

“What?” she asked defensively. “Was I supposed to share?”

“I’m just concerned for your liver, that’s all,” Myrie said, eyes wide in shock. “Have you won any drinking contests?”

Her proud slash of a smile flashed in the bar’s dim light. “I’ve been banned from returning to sev’ral establishments and am officially an honorary norn of Hoelbrack.”

“Why’d you choose this place?” Selana couldn’t quite keep the disgust out of her voice. She flicked a small bolt of lightning at a curious rat, sending it screeching off in the corner, its fur sizzling.

“Privacy. I thought we could all use some bonding time!” Nettle spread her hands in a friendly gesture. “And since everyone else here is either passed out, drunk, or trying to hide, no one will be listening to our conversation. So! I’ll open up our little session with a game of regrets.”

“Regrets?”

“Well, things that you wish you had or hadn’t done. Something you miss. Can be as personal or impersonal as you’d like. I’ll start.” She took her drink from the golem waiter and sipped it. “I regret the sloppiness in my work. It has cost too many priceless ingredients and too much time.” She set her empty glass on the table. “Who’s next?”

“Oi’ll go,” Sylfia slurred. “Oi h’regret… not tryin’ to move past my fear sooner. It’s grand, bein’ free o’ that.” Her fifth tankard was happily and quickly drained.

Selana replaced her half-full wineglass. “I regret not searching for my parents earlier, when my first insecurities and questions began to rise.”

The three looked expectantly at Myrie, who paused mid-drink. “What?” she exclaimed exasperatedly. “Can’t a woman whet her whistle before she speaks?”

“Yer stallin’,” Sylfia chortled. “Come on, we’ve all told somefing.”

“This is silly,” the thief protested.

“Which is exactly why we’re doing it! We’ve got to have something to laugh over; dragons seem less horrible when you’ve got something to joke about.”

After a few good-natured jabs and teasing, she finally relented. “Just let me think about it!” she laughed.

“Better hurry- as soon as Sylfia’s done with her drink, we’re continuing our journey.”

“Don’t even think about stalling,” Selana smiled, eyes glittering with mirth.

A frustrated groan escaped the thief’s mouth. “All right, all right, you warmongers. I’ve got two. You know the first- I wish that I had the courage and sensibility to tell Quinn how I felt before he died. The second is one I haven’t told to anyone outside of my family, so I’d rather you keep it close.”

The other women leaned in. Myrie took a breath.

“I regret the fact that I never pursued my childhood dream of joining the circus.”

Sylfia broke out in spluttering laughs. “Th-the circus?” She keeled over the table and was incomprehensible for the next several seconds.

“What? It’s better than your silly habit of out-drinking all of Tyria! Besides,” she said, settling back into her chair with her chipped porcelain mug of rice wine, “I kind of already got that chance.”

“What do you mean?” Selana asked.  Myrie took a slow drink before she replied.

“Part of the reason I wanted to join the circus was so that I could travel throughout the world, having adventures and meeting interesting people.” She paused. “And, I’ll admit, I did want to see what I could steal. Imagine the treasures you could get if you had an Elonian prince in the audience! But it turns out that I didn’t need to get painted in ridiculous shades or wear silly costumes to travel and see new folks. I mean, look at us! We’re our own little traveling circus,” she said. “And let’s be honest, some of us are pretty odd already.”

“Oi’ll second that!” Sylfia cheered. “To the traveling circus!”

“To the circus!” the others cried. They drained their drinks, steadied the warrior- “Oi’m fine!”- and resupplied before they continued their journey to the Grove in much higher spirits.


	34. Arc 3, Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin wakes and explores beyond the Grove for the first time.

Llumin hissed as the cold air struck her skin. Although she wasn’t warm-sapped, she could still feel the cool, damp breeze as it gently whispered over her exposed form. Her head swam, and she groped blindly for anything to steady her shaking legs.  
“Easy there, sprout,” a voice reassured. “You just woke from the Dream.” Firm, tightly-coiled branches and smooth arms braced her, and someone draped a warm blanket over her shivering body.  
“Thank you,” she said. She cracked open her eyes; the hazy outline of a humanoid form was in front of her.  
“I know it’s not as warm when the sun goes down,” the form said, pressing something warm into her hands, “but we’ve helped plenty of Dusk blooms awake from their Dreams; few of them were trembling as badly as you. Did something happen in your Dream?”  
She nodded slowly as she raised the cup to her lips and gingerly sipped it. “I saw a dragon of vines and branches in my Dream, full of hunger. It tried to eat me. It would have eaten the world, I think,” she said uneasily. “I had to fight it.”  
“And what happened?”  
Her eyes finally adjusted to the soft moonlight, allowing her to see the two armored Wardens by her side. She was in a mossy, forested area that pulsed and glowed with life. Other newborn sylvari stumbled out of their pods in various states of confusion. Some wept, while most seemed pleasantly-surprised at the world in which they found themselves.  
She looked into the warm, concerned eyes of the nearest Warden.  
“I won.”

In the days that followed, she had been supplied with clothes and food - hunger was something that had not existed in the Dream – and was assigned a place of residence. Despite its safety, she felt uneasy, as if there was something in the back of her mind that she had forgotten. Tales of the world beyond the Grove tickled her ears; already she knew her Wyld Hunt called her elsewhere.  
Even in her waking world, the memory of the dragon in her Dream haunted her. She hadn’t heard of anyone else who had dreamed of it. Was she to face it alone? She picked up her sword and practiced a few thrusts on a dummy made of living plants and vines. Her strikes had become more accurate, and her grasp of mental manipulation had made great strides, but were they enough? Surely no-one could take on a dragon by themselves. She sighed and walked out of her house, back into the Grove. As soon as she stepped out, a Warden ran up to her.  
“You have been summoned,” he panted. “The Pale Mother wishes to speak with you.”  
She blinked in surprise. What was the reason behind this honor?  
“Thank you,” she replied. “I will be there shortly.”

“You are but one of a very few sylvari who have dreamed about the dragon,” the Tree said. Her avatar’s honeysuckle skin flickered and shimmered as if it was an illusion, and Llumin had to concentrate on the image to keep it steady.  
“Who else has dreamed of it?” she asked. Her fingers absently toyed with the grooves on her sword’s pommel.  
“I have.” A pale, green-skinned sylvari with white hair and dark, leathery armor stepped from the shadows. Her eyes bored into Llumin, who flinched at the intensity of her gaze. “I am Caithe, of the Firstborn. Tell me, Llumin, what did you do when the dragon appeared?”  
Llumin almost forgot to close her mouth. To be summoned by the Pale Mother was itself an honor; that one of the first of her kind was speaking to her made today one of the first truly historic moments in her short life. She cleared her throat and reminded herself how to speak.  
“I first was very afraid,” she said, “as I had not heard of such a creature from either Ventari or the other Dreamers. I was the only one who fought it. While others around me faded as they woke from the Dream, I had no choice but to stay behind and fight.”  
The Firstborn’s eyes narrowed. “To fight a dragon alone requires no small amount of courage, young one,” she murmured.  
“It is certainly impressive, but she will need more training if she is to face a dragon in the waking world,” the Pale Tree said.  
“You know I cannot train her.” Caithe’s frown deepened.  
“No, but you can guide her to those who can. Caledon Forest has plenty of people who could help her. In time, she will be able to fulfill her destiny. For now, I will contact the other whose fate echoes her own.” She turned to Llumin and gave her a gentle smile. “Do not be afraid, my child. I sense in you a great power, and a destiny that will change Tyria. Go forth with courage, and remember that home is never further than your heart.”

If the Grove was like a lake, then Caledon Forest surely was an ocean to Llumin; the size and sounds of the hamlet in the woods was but a hint at what lay beyond the gates of home, and even that seemed enormous to her.  
“This is only a small corner of the world- not even that,” Caithe said. She crossed her arms and head tilted at her cynically. “Whatever talents the Pale Mother sees in you must be buried deeply; regardless of where you go, be careful. Not everything or everyone is as it seems.” She turned around. “I have business to attend to elsewhere. Good luck, Llumin.” With that, she faded into the shadows, leaving the young sylvari to explore the world by herself.  
“Rather poor job of telling me who to find,” she muttered. “But I suppose the journey of a thousand miles has to start somewhere.”

She learned from locals of evils that lurked near Grove.  
“What are Risen?” she asked, pausing to bend and feed a gardener’s pet moa. His fear was palpable.  
“Terrible corpses, taken by the sea and given life by the Elder Dragon, Zhaitan. They know not pain or fear, instead charging with the blind hunger of a parasite, seeking to destroy and consume all for their master.”  
She was silent for a moment, and in the quiet where only the leaves rustled, the gardener wondered why she asked. “Can they be killed?” she finally said.  
“You’re a brave soul to ask that question,” he said. He set his hoe aside and leaned on it. “Yes. We’ve already started to see some of them coming further inland.” he pointed towards the northeast. “We sylvari are immune to their corruption, but the grubs and animals aren’t. When the corpses finally are dead, be sure to burn them- Zhaitan has a way of making them rise again even worse than before.”  
“Then I suppose I’ll have to head out and help protect others from them,” she smiled. Already she had taken on sadistic Nightmare Court, gigantic mosquitoes, and terrible spiders. How bad could these Risen be?

The Risen human’s slimy, rotten head broke the surface of the gray-tinged water, its gaping, wet-rattling throat wheezing for air. It was instantly met with the pointed end of her sword, spreading maggoty brains around its re-killed body. Llumin gagged.  
No body, no corpse had ever smelled that way; her former foes had always been living creatures. She already hated these festering corpses, whose eyes blazed with hunger and rage, and sometimes- worst of all- a semblance of their former intelligence.  
“I’m sorry,” she would say to those that weren’t completely gone. She whirled around at a distant rumble and the intense smell of rotten, seawater-laden flesh.  
Her eyes widened in terror as an abomination of corpses, mangled and molded into some gigantic creature, gave a gurgling roar and charged at her. She concentrated, and flashed from one point to another, dodging its attack. The clone she left behind shattered into dozens of flickering shards at its heavy blow, and the abomination swiped at its misshapen head angrily.  
“This one,” it snarled, turning back towards her. “Kill.”

 


	35. Arc 3, Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selana uses the portal stone and discovers the ghost of her namesake as well as further insights into her family history.

Tomorrow Selana and her companions would finally arrive in the Grove.  She and the other women had taken to procuring their resting-places for the evening separately, and she had gone over her provisions multiple times out of sheer habit and to calm the fluttering nerves that hid behind her calm facade.  Dozens of questions rose and fell in her mind, and she had already started and finished a half-dozen imaginary introductions or other scenes that could play out when meeting Llumin.  Would she know her?  Would Selana see the same spark of intelligence in her eyes that she had seen in those of their mother?  She paused re-folding a linen nightshirt.  She couldn’t remember the color of Llumin’s eyes.  She sighed heavily, let the clothing rumple back into her tightly-packed sack, and sat on the bed in the middle of the well-decorated room she had rented for the evening.

 She didn’t know where the others were, but they had all planned on meeting at the Lion’s Court in front of the asura gates after sunrise.  Maybe if she tried to lie down, she could tempt sleep to visit her.  After several minutes of frustrated rolling and pillow-fluffing, Selana decided that to attempt sleep was futile.  She rolled over and removed the portal stone from her backpack and looked at it in the dull moonlight. Her parents had told her to wait until she had found Llumin to activate it, but a part of her burned with curiosity.  How would she know to use it?  Better to know now than later, she told herself, and bring Llumin when she was ready.

 

 The elementalist shifted her shoulders and focused on the smooth stone, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly. Behind her lids, a white light slowly burned, growing in strength until, no matter how scrunched her face was, it rendered her temporarily blind. When she opened her eyes, the all-consuming light had faced into a more comforting, almost homey glow. She blinked away the white afterimage, and her eyes widened in awe.

She was in a hall filled with crumbling statues, creeping vines, and ancient stonework. Her soft slippers whispered on the cold, carved floor, and the back of her robe sighed as it stroked the worn, ash-stained stone.  She pulled her sleeves more tightly around her; the chill air of the once-splendorous hall was a sharp contrast to the balmy air of Lion’s Arch. Her eyes drank in the tattered tapestries, still-flickering torches, and the clear blue sky which flashed through holes in the roof.

She gasped as a sudden cold front brought her to a standstill, and when she blinked, a ghost dressed in ancient Ascalonian armor was in front of her. It was as if she was staring at a slightly shorter image of herself; aside from a thinner mouth and more angular eyes, the likeliness was uncanny.

“So, you are my namesake,” the ghost hummed. A faint accent graced her authoritative tone, curling the r’s into something wild. “I have been waiting for you, Selana Firestone. Behold the ruins of the once-proud Eye of the North, bastion of human refuge from the first Destroyer uprising and the first meeting-place of the human, asuran, and norn races. We have much to discuss.”

 

“Though I was no small elementalist myself while alive,” the ghost said, “I’ll admit that I cannot take all the credit for your powers.  That would be courtesy of your great-great …. Well, however many ‘greats’ have passed from now to then … grandfather, Jameel.”  She dusted off intangible shoulderpads.   
  “I met him in Elona when I tried to steal his treasure, which I thought was abandoned.  I managed to escape by puzzling him with a riddle so confusing that he promised to let me go if he couldn’t solve it.” She smiled.  “I never did tell him that the answer could change depending on how you phrased it,” she said.  “He was so desperate to find the answer after I had returned to Kryta at the end of the battles of Nightfall that he left those hot sands and followed me back to Lion’s Arch disguised as a pirate.  When he found me, I at first thought he was trying to seek revenge; instead, he offered to duel me in a battle of wits until sundown.   I was impressed by his determination, and he by my memory. We courted for several months before we were wed, and when I passed away, I did so with the sense that the end of my life was not the end of my tale. I asked Jameel to create a stone that only our descendants could use, letting them access our treasures in the hopes that they could use them when needed.  Jameel eventually returned to his elemental form, and I stayed here, waiting for those who would use the portal stone to visit and claim what I have kept for centuries.”  
  The living stared incredulously at the ghost.  “Did I hear that right?  Did you just say that… Jameel _returned_ to an elemental form?”   
  The ghost’s brow furrowed.  “I did, didn’t I?”   
  Selana sighed.  Ghosts could get forgetful, she had heard, and especially –    
  Her ancestor held up a finger.  “I meant that he turned back into a djinn.”  
 Shock, Selana learned, acted as a wonderful numbing agent.  The cold air breezed over insensitive skin.  “You married a _djinn?_!”  
  “It explains why the elemental power in your lineage hasn’t decreased over the years, doesn’t it?”  The ghost beamed.  Selana could have sworn that there was a twinkling of mischief in the pale eyes.  “Even we unliving have heard how the world’s magic has decreased over time with the rise of the Elder Dragons.  I suspect that your ancestor’s power is its own source.  It’s not unchanging, but it is stable enough, I think, to allow for you and those who inherited the elemental gift to have a sort of ‘resevoir’ of potential.”   
  “What is the point of this?”  Selana sat on the high edge of a worn, octoganal pool.  Her ancestor walked soundlessly to stand by her side.   
  “Jameel’s power,” she said slowly, “was a gift that I could never truly understand.  Those of you who inherited what fragments that you have possess something truly remarkable.  I’ve only heard of it once or twice, but those who have managed to harness it are able to train and become something truly great, turning themselves into pure elemental conduits, or learning to weave opposing elements together as the djinn themselves.”  She closed her eyes and sighed.  “He really was something amazing, namesake,” she murmured.  “But now you know why your own abilities may overshadow those of the other elementalists you encounter. Be careful with them, Selana.  Remember my tale, and that of your great-ancestor-father. Remember that few things cannot be overcome when you have the aid of others.”  
  “Aid?”  
Selana Firestone- the ghost, that is- winked. “How do you think I managed to come up with an answer that stumped a djinn? Never fight alone, child.  Go with my blessing.  After all, your sister needs a calm mind and welcoming heart to show her who she truly is.” The specter closed her eyes and sighed, shaking her head with a light laugh. “Who would have thought that one day I could claim a tree-child as my descendant?”


	36. Arc 3, Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin meets with someone she saw in her Dream.

 

“Again!” The Warden’s voice broke into Llumin’s thoughts, shattering her concentration. She flinched, and her opponent’s sword hissed by her ear. A kick to her stomach sent her reeling back, and she coughed sap. The sylvari strode across from her, sneering down at her prone form.

“Pathetic. You think you’ll be able to take on the dragons in that shape? If you keep flinching at every little thing and noise that startles you, you’ll be dead before you go back out there.”  He threw his hands in the air.  “The Pale Mother must have been watching over you indeed for you to have survived that assault on the Wardenlight trees.”

“I had help,” she coughed, steadying herself and rising shakily. “Mother says that we should never fight alone.”

“But what if your foes are around you and your allies slain?”  He crossed his arms and sighed with all of the impatience of an elder sibling.  “There will be times where the only blade you’ll be able to trust is your own. You Dusk blooms really ought to get your heads out of your books and train more with real-world weapons.”

A high-pitched chime reached Llumin’s ears. She smiled. “I’m sorry, but I do believe that was your summons, wasn’t it? Thank you for the lessons. I’ll keep your concerns in mind.”

 

She limped back to the Dreamer’s Terrace and sat down heavily, wincing at the bruises she had sustained. Although she had put on a brave face, the truth of the matter was that her injuries were much more painful than she had let on. If war was a mind game, then let her foes believe her to always smile. Sometimes a laugh could be more intimidating than a war-cry.

A shout of pain echoed loudly through the corridors. Startled, she raced towards its source. A male sylvari with pale white skin and dark green leaves for hair lay prostrate on a mender’s table. His teeth were clenched in agony, and his eyes were squeezed shut.

“You!” A mender had noticed Llumin’s presence and pointed at her. “Bring me some water; his fever’s increasing. Hurry!”

Confusion as much as anything gave her haste as she rushed out and grabbed a pitcher plant before filling it with cool liquid.  She hurriedly gave it to the mahogany-skinned healer, who sprinkled some dried blue flowers into it.  After a few precious seconds, she scooped up the rehydrated blooms, masehd them into a paste, and spread them on her patient’s forehead. Almost immediately, his screams settled into quiet moans of pain. The mender sighed in relief.

  “Thank you. We found him at the edge of a Nightmare Court’s camp. He had been badly wounded; it’s a miracle that he’s survived this long.” She gestured to his armor, which grew in thick, bark-like plates from his chest and shoulders. “He had no forms of identification on him, save for his shield. Do you recognize it?”

Llumin looked to where she pointed. The crescent-shaped shield was made of black branches that glowed from the inside with the pale light of the moon. A dark tree graced its center. Her brow furrowed.

“You know, I may have seen something like that in my Dream,” she murmured. A memory flickered beneath a hazy surface- a guardian rushing into battle, brandishing that very item. “The Shield of the Moon,” she whispered. The patient stirred once more, eyes blinking slowly.

“He’s coming to! Easy, now,” the mender soothed. “You’re safe.”

“Ysvelta,” he muttered, eyes hazy. “Where is she?”

“Don’t try to sit up,” the sylvari scolded, holding his shoulders in a firm grasp. “You seem a bit overeager to rush back into battle. Rest first.”

“They have her; they’ve taken her from me,” he whispered.  His glassy eyes danced skittishly about the room. “She’ll be doomed….”

Llumin took a deep breath. “Hello. I know your face from my Dream. Perhaps I could help you find this Ysvelta?”

His eyes locked on hers, piercing through her unsteady smile. She suddenly felt very inadequate for whatever task he had attempted, and at the same time, a surge of pity rose in her.

“You love her very much, don’t you?” she said softly. “I can see that. If the Nightmare Court has her, I’m sure she’ll endure for you as you are doing right now for her.” She slowly held out a hand. “I’m Llumin.”

He hesitated before extending his own and shaking it. “Tiachren,” he replied. His gaze was clearer. “I apologize for my earlier outburst. Those cowards poisoned me with nettlebane before leaving me there to die. Ysvelta is my wife; we were married about a year ago. We had been on a picnic to celebrate our anniversary when the Court ambushed us and kidnapped her. I tried to hold them off- to save her from them…” His fist clenched in frustration. “There were too many. They kicked me like a dog, lashed at me with words and swords, and left me for dead. I cannot give up on her. If the Court thinks they can dissuade me from rescuing my love through simple means of pain, they are wrong.” He grunted and sat up, swinging his legs over the table.

“Careful!” the mender snapped. “I just reset those ribs. You’re going to need to wait for them to -!”

“If I wait any longer, she may be dead.” Tiachren's eyes blazed. “How would you live with yourself if you knew that the death of your truest love and greatest friend was caused by simple inaction? I appreciate what you’ve done, but I’ve already lost time.” He grabbed his helmet, hands shaking as he placed it over his head.

“Wait!”

  
He glanced back at Llumin, brow raised with impatient frustration.

  
“I noticed you for a reason," she said soothingly.  "The Dream shows us what is important to our future. If I saw you, then it must mean that you require my aid. Let me join you. Perhaps together we can rescue Ysvelta.”

Tiachren’s jaw shifted as he thought about the idea. For a long second, Llumin thought he may turn down her offer. “Very well; I could use another hand. Come on; I overheard them saying they’d be taking her to Bramble Pass. Prepare yourself quickly; we leave in minutes.”

 

“They told me you’re a mesmer,” he said, pushing aside a branch to let her pass through.

“I’m only just getting the hang of it,” she replied humbly. “It’s hard to master the manipulation of reality.”

“The fact that you are advancing instead of giving up is a good sign.”

“To say that I haven’t considered it would be a lie.”

“Ah, but you _haven’t,_ ” he said. He smiled as he trudged forward. “And that is what matters. As long as you keep pursuing it, you are certain to find your goal.”

Llumin was silent for the next several steps, mulling over the idea. “I suppose you’re right,” she agreed. “I hope that it will be the case with Ysvelta.”

Tiachren gave a strained laugh. “If it isn’t, I don’t know what I would do.”

“I’m sure she’s-” Llumin fell silent as the low crunching sound of passing boots stalked by her. The guardian followed suit, crouching in the shadows and peering out warily.

 

“What a raid,” one of the Nightmare courtiers laughed, thrusting his sword into the ground and sitting on a nearby stump. “I didn’t think there would be so many unprotected.”

“Refreshing, isn’t it?” his companion smirked. “So innocent. So new from the Dream.” He gave a satisfied sigh. “How easily they should turn to Nightmare.”

“Perhaps.” A third member of their party spoke up, her haughty voice pricking Llumin’s mind with unease. “Some of our captives aren’t quite so fresh to this world, are they?”

“Who, the picnicking wife? Pah. She’ll forget her dear husband soon enough.”

“Hopefully the memory of his broken corpse will linger just a while longer, though,” laughed the first. “Such delicious agony! So potent.”

“Do not dwell on your victories and spoils just yet, my dears,” the woman purred. “The task ahead shall be an even richer reward.”

Llumin laid a hand on Tiachren’s straining form, holding him back. “We cannot rush out there,” she hissed. “We shall be slaughtered.”

“They are speaking of my wife,” he whispered back fiercely. “They talk of her as if she is some… _plaything_ or experiment! If we rush out now-”

“If we rush out now, we waste any further chances of learning the protection around her cell, or where she is, or if she is even _alive_. We cannot afford to lose this opportunity. Let them rest. Hopefully their arrogance will cause them to slip up.”

He gave her one furious glare before gritting his teeth and settling back onto the ground. “One hour,” he growled. “If they do not speak of her again by willful carelessness, I will force her location from their lips by other means.”


	37. Arc 3, Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Traveling Circus encounters a new ally.

 

“Thief!”

Selana’s head jerked up at the cry, and instantly her gaze snapped to where Myrie had been mere moments ago. Though they were no longer in Lion’s Arch, they had somehow managed to run across a merchant’s caravan upon their arrival at the Grove. Nettle had constantly been the cause of crowd dispersion and suspicious whispers, and Sylfia was already in a shouting match with a Warden. The last thing the elementalist needed on this humid afternoon was for Myrie’s thieving ways to make a reappearance.

“Someone stole my brooch!” the anguished victim howled. Selana gave Nettle a glance.

“I’ll see if I can calm her down,” she sighed. “Although I’m not sure that’s something you’ll want me to try.”

“It’s better than what Sylfia would be able to do,” Selana grimaced, glancing across the crowd towards the fiery sylvari.

“Fair enough.” The necromancer craned her neck, peering on tiptoes over the throng. “Found her. I’ll be back.”

As the pale sylvari disappeared into the crowd of plant-people, Lady Firestone walked towards Sylfia, where the warrior was continuing what seemed to be a combined string of protests, insults, and wheedling.

“…and you can’t possibly think that yer pretty little ‘ead would stand a chance against my fist, wouldja? C’mon, you barking stick-spine, lemme ‘ave just a sip!”

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Sylfia, the last time you were at this establishment, you destroyed several years’ worth of careful shaping, three kegs of nectar, and two chairs- not to mention you nearly lit Firstborn Trahearne’s writing corner on fire.”

“Oi, one corner with pens is just a mess to someone like me. And Oi thought someone said there was poison in those kegs!”

“I’m sure someone with such a grand scholarly view would be an expert on such a thing.” The brown-skinned Warden rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “But no matter how much you shout or threaten physical violence, you will not change my mind; you are _not_ getting into this bar!”

Sylfia gave a shout of frustration. “Oi apologized! Oi’ve offered to pay, and-”

Selana cleared her throat.  “Sylfia.”

The warrior spun on her heel. “Oh, ‘ey there, fleshy. Miss Bramble-knickers and Oi were just-”

“Arguing about the legality of your entrance into a bar where you have been banned?” The elementalist folded her arms and tilted her head, smiling slightly. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you’re going to win this one. And unless you want to end up in prison- do sylvari have prisons? I thought so. As I was saying, unless you want to get arrested, I suggest you drop this one.”

The warrior snarled and raised her hammer over her shoulder. For a moment, Selana thought that she was going to attack. However, she simply turned on her heel and stalked away, muttering that she would try finding another place to get a drink.

“I apologize,” Selana said, turning back towards the Warden.

“You don’t need to,” she replied, running a hand over her leaf-plated head. “She’s always been like this. I’d keep an eye on her, but I _think_ that she’s good at heart.”

A distant shout reached their ears. The Warden grimaced.

“That is, if you can bear to break through her thick skull.”

 

Nettle wove deftly through the crowd, slipping through the people as easily as a silk ribbon. Though the greater population of the Grove did not know of her … _eclectic_ hobbies, there was enough of a psychic resonance that those who were especially attuned would shudder or glance in her direction when she passed by. She didn’t mind or pay them any heed; for now her concerns were elsewhere.

“Excuse me, but have you seen a short, brown-haired human around here? She’s kind of jumpy, got green eyes, and slightly-dirty pale pink skin.”

Nettle's own emotional awareness quirked.  A maroon-haired, green-skin sylvari twitched as her hand brushed over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” she smiled. “You just seemed as though you were searching for something.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” he laughed. He peered over her shoulder. “I hope you find your friend. If you’ll excuse me….”

He tried moving forward, but she slipped in front of him, tilting her head. “I’m sure you’d be able to help. What’s your name?”

He wove around her again before being turned around by her once more. “Elmfrond,” he replied, trying to keep a civil tone. “Is there anything else you need?”

“You certainly seem twitchy, sprout,” she grinned. “Got somewhere to be?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” he retorted, pushing past her again. “I recently sold a bit of jewelry at the trader’s, and I’m off to pick up my profits.”

“Oh? What kind of jewelry?”  She turned and kept up with his strides.

His golden eyes narrowed. “What matter is it to you?”

“Quite a bit,” she purred. “A friend of mine just told me that you’re a thief- and I do recall hearing a shriek about a missing brooch. Since my recent companion seems to have a rule against thievery from common-folk…”

“What are you implying?”

At that moment, a familiar voice called out.

“Hey, Nettle! Just thought I’d get some supplies and see if we could find some lodging. I think there are some apartment-things we’ll be allowed to stay in and…”

The necromancer whirled and gave a too-wide smile.  “Myrie! So good to see you. You haven’t had a brooch recently come into your possession, have you?”

“What? No. I mean, I craft them from time to time, but I haven’t got one as of late. Why?”  She looked from one sylvari to the other.  "There a problem?"

Both women slowly turned to look fully at Elmfrond, who was fidgeting with his gloves.

“Well, this is awkward. You seem to have caught me in a rather sticky situation. So if you’ll excuse me…”

With a sudden jerk, the sylvari ducked Nettle’s grasp and rolled onto the ground and away from the crowd.

Nettle snarled and drew her dagger.  “Get back here!”

“I found the thief!” Myrie called, giving chase. “And he wasn’t me!”


	38. Arc 3, Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin and Tiachren run into scouts for the Nightmare Court. Llumin and Tiachren disagree on ethics.

 

Llumin suppressed a shudder as Tiachren finished cleaning his blade. Although she had considered it dishonorable, he had insisted that by reducing their numbers down to one, the resulting intimidation of being the last man standing would cause the Nightmare Courtier to be much more willing to speak. He had stalked over and slit their throats in their sleep, covering their mouths as soon as his blade slid over their necks. It was a cold, efficient job, and Llumin couldn’t help but think that love, though surely it was spoken of as wonderful, must also be terrifying.

“He’s waking.” The guardian’s voice interrupted her stunned silence, shaking her out of her shock. She nodded mutely.

At first, the Courtier did not realize what had happened. He rubbed his eyes once, twice, and looked up at them, his eyes flashing with cruel recognition and glee. He saw them as prey, and he reached for his weapons, calling out to his allies- only to realize with horror that they were dead at his side. Tiachren gave a triumphant snarl and crouched over him, planting a boot on his chest and causing his foe’s sword-grasp to falter.

“Talk,” he demanded. “Unless you want to end up like your companions, you will answer my questions. Any lies, and my friend will slowly peel your mind apart layer by layer until you are nothing but a jabbering stalk.”

A jolt of terror flashed through her mind. Was she really expected to do what he said and use her abilities to cause kind of pain? Was she _able_ to do that?

The Courtier sneered and coughed, scrabbling to push the oppressive foot from his chest.

“You’re the husband, aren’t you? You’re harder to kill than we thought. Coward. If you think that you’ll be able to make me talk-”

His broke off his boast, screaming in pain as Tiachren shoved his foot harder onto him. A sharp, wet crack echoed like a thunderbolt in Llumin’s ears.

“Where is my wife?” he hissed.

“Renvari!” the courtier gasped. “Renvari has them! They’re in the holding area by the Wardenlight tower. I heard him speak that he planned on converting them to Nightmare soon- that some were already breaking from the lie of the Dream! Please, that’s all I know!”

Tiachren’s lips thinned into a grim line. The courtier squirmed beneath his boot.

“Tiachren,” Llumin spoke softly, as if to a wild beast. She took a cautious step. “He has already told us what we need to know. Let him go.”

His head barely turned towards her.  “He is Nightmare- the personification of evil. He stole the most precious treasure in my life, and who knows how many he has caused to fall?”

“Yes, but remember Ventari’s sayings. ‘The blossom is brother to the weed. Everything has a right to grow.’”

For a long second, the only sounds Llumin heard were the quick beats of her heart; the rapid, shallow breaths of the guardian across from her; and the slow, sluggish groans of the man beneath his boot. The eternal minute finally passed, broken by Tiachren’s sigh.

“Very well,” he said, stepping off his broken chest. “I will let him go.”

Llumin closed her eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. Finally. She would feel better with the knowledge that-

A sharp hiss echoed through the wood.  The courtier fell, clutching his throat. Tiachren stood defiant, sneering at the dead sylvari.

“No-one like that,” he said slowly, turning his eyes to hers, “deserves to live.”

“You said you were going to let him go!” Although she already knew it was futile, Llumin tried to stop the flow of blood from the dead man’s chest.  After a few seconds, she finally stopped and set him down slowly, running her fingers over his eyelids to close them.

“I did. I freed him from that cruel frame of mind he was trapped in.” His mouth twisted. “How could you even attempt to save some monster like him?”

“Is that not what we are called to do- to save even the most despicable? By killing them, are we any better than they?”

A cold edge bit into her throat. Llumin’s eyes widened; Tiachren held his blade against her neck.

“And if they were to kill you first, would you be heralded as a martyr for a greater cause?” he hissed. “What if they threatened to take away everything good in the world? Would you defend them then? What if they burned the entire Grove and killed everyone inside?” He removed his sword from her neck and stalked away. “Sometimes for the blossom to grow, the weed must be culled. I did not allow you to come with me to slow me down. If you insist upon saving every wolf who preys upon the sheep of this world, then you are too naïve to travel by my side.”

Llumin closed her eyes, took a shaky breath, and swallowed. She had heard the Nightmare courtiers boast of their conquests and kills, speaking of other sylvari as if they were nothing more than entertaining insects or playthings.

“Perhaps you are right,” she finally called, standing and walking back towards him, “but we don’t need to act as they do.  If we can spare them when we have promised them freedom, let them escape with their lives. I know we cannot always spare those who could change, but if we can, shouldn’t we? Isn’t there already enough death in this world?”

Tiachren was silent, although he did not object to her presence alongside him.

“You haven’t experienced what they are capable of,” he murmured coolly. “We can discuss this later. For now, we go to Renvari.”

 

They incapacitated the guards outside of the cells quickly and quietly, taking their clothes and disguising themselves. When the next group of courtiers passed through the gates, Llumin and Tiachren blended in with them and slipped in unnoticed.

“They won’t even suspect what’s going on!” one of the guards laughed. “Isn’t it delightful? Using their own friends against them! Those Dreamers won’t have it in them to raise their swords against their old loved ones.”

“They’ll see soon enough- but hush! Lord Renvari is heading this way.”

Llumin strained her neck to caution a glimpse of the courtier as he descended the thorny stairs and walked their way, stepping with the cool arrogance of a lion. His skin was a bright gold, and the leaves of his hair were swept into a tall line of spikes down the center of his head. Although he was handsome, there was something about his presence that made the mesmer shudder. He smiled at one of the guards in the front of her group, tilting his head.

“I see that you have done well with those Dreamer whelps,” he purred. “Already three of them have turned to Nightmare.”

The courtier in front bowed her head hurriedly. “It is with pleasure that we hear of this success, my lord,” she murmured. “How quickly the others should-”

“What _I_ want to know,” he interrupted, “is why I have not heard the report from our gate guards about the newest captives?”

Tiachren’s gaze locked onto hers. _Make no sound and be quiet,_ it seemed to command. To have their cover blown now would be disastrous, and she doubted that the Nightmare Court would offer them any mercy.

“Captives?” the guard stuttered. “We haven’t had any new catches from our recent raids. If there had been, I am sure the gate watch would have let you know straight away, my lord.”

“Oh, I know there haven’t been any new ‘recruits,’” Renvari said.  “ _That_ is the problem.” With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a flaming blade and buried it to the hilt in the guard’s chest. The horrid scent of charred magic and the sweet-bitter tang of burning blood filled Llumin’s nostrils; she held back a gag as the guard toppled to the ground, clutching at her chest and choking on her boiling blood. An uneasy silence filled the air.

“Gather this one for my pyre,” Renvari snapped. “Unless I hear that we have caught any new Dreamers by sundown, _all_ of you will burn!”


	39. Arc 3, Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Circus finds a lead on Llumin and loses Nettle.

 

Elmfrond squirmed unhappily as Sylfia held firmly onto his wrist.

“I don’t even see why it was so important,” he huffed.

“Personally, Oi don’t think it was. We’ll all die sometime, anyway, but the fewer shrieking people, the better.”

“You seem awfully distant.”

“Oi’m nearly sober. Everything’s distant and loud.”

“Well, maybe you should try being drunk less often.” He smiled at her.

She grimaced. “Dare suggest such an ‘orrible thing again, and I’ll knock that noggin of yours into next week.”

Myrie jogged up to them. “Selana’s got good and bad news. The good news is that we were able to find the victim who had lost the brooch. The bad news is that we can’t retract the sale and are now landed with this fellow’s debt.” She jerked her thumb at Elmfrond. “And we’ve lost Nettle.”

“Well, we can resolve one of those.”

“How’s that?”

Selana strode stiffly towards them, the back of her cloak snapping with her stride. “Sylfia, please release your grasp on him. We wouldn’t want our newest guildmember to be bruised, would we?”

Myrie gave a snort. “How many billets do you intend on buying? Surely you can’t have that much money left.”

The elementalist closed her money pouch with a sharp click. “What makes you think I have any to spare? You vagabonds are ridiculously expensive to leash.”

“Leash?” Myrie’s eyebrow rocketed upward. “Are we some sort of expensive dog, O Grand Lady? If you’d like a trick, I could disappear.”

“Oh, shaddap,” Sylfia groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose and scrunching her face. “Right now, we’ve got to focus on finding Nettle. Who knows what that batty necro’s up to now.”

“For all the bellyaching you do, she seems relatively tame.”

“You haven’t known her for most of your life,” the warrior retorted, giving a glance down at Myrie. “And I don’t know what conversation she’s had with those other nobles, but I can tell you she’s been restraining herself from tasting any of your blood.”

“How can you tell?”

The smile she received in turn was as taut as the string on her bow. “She’s been baring her teeth. Every breath she takes, she claims she can sense the blood of those around her. She says she can taste the magic lingering in the air, and that certain people have more of it than others.”

Elmfrond cleared his throat. “Well. That sounds unpleasant. You bought her billet, didn’t you, Miss…?”

“Firestone. Lady Selana Firestone. And no, I have not.”

Sylfia gave a rasping laugh. “Well. Be prepared to find a body soon. This diversion may have gained us a new friend, but we might need to answer for a missing person.”

“Speaking of missing person,” Myrie drawled, fiddling with her dagger, “how on earth do you plan on finding Llumin? This will definitely slow our search down.”

Despite the raw nerves and the hazards presented by the missing necromancer, Elmfrond perked up.

“You know her?”

Myrie turned to stare at him.  “Do _you?”_

“Yes; I met her in the Dream before I woke. I’m a Noon bloom, but she was born later at Dusk. She’s a bit odd, but what do I know?” he shrugged.

Selana’s face had drained of color. “You know Llumin,” she whispered.

Elmfrond raised a brow. “Yes?”

“Llumin is…Well, I know how this will sound, but … she’s my sister.”  Selana looked uncharacteristically uncertain.  “I need to find her.”

The sylvari narrowed his eyes. “Hmm.  You don’t seem like you’re lying, but how is that possible?”

“Long story,” Myrie interrupted, moving past him. She straightened her collar. “Where’d you see her last?”

“Well, I didn’t see her,” he said, “but last I knew, she was heading to the Nightmare Court with Tiachren. Some other saplings- that is, newly-awakened Dreamers- have gone missing, and they’re trying to rescue them.”

 


	40. Arc 3, Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nettle finds a business contact.

 

She had slipped back through the portal to Lion’s Arch and strode across the pavilion to the Black Citadel. Salt tang and must gave way to the smells of hot metal and oil; if the Grove was an enormous forest, the Citadel was a thrumming, groaning machine. Beneath the scent of industry, the distinct aroma of blood rose from below, where arenas held fights between some of the city’s more explosive tempers. This was the heart of Ascalon, where the feline, bipedal charr lived. She appreciated their tenacity, but disliked their musk, which was rather odd and reminded her of a strange mix of bear and panther- heady and very wild.

A gate guard had noticed her passing and gave a low, throaty laugh. “Hey, sprout,” he called, “you’re in the wrong place for someone of your kind, aren’t you?”

She stopped in her stride and tilted her head, not bothering to turn around. “Someone of my kind?” she repeated curiously. “What do you mean? Are you saying that I am weak? I am not. If you are implying that I am ignorant to the ways of war, that is also incorrect. And if you think that I am simply stopping here for a stroll in the steel, you are wrong. Now, if you think that because I am sylvari that I do not belong…” Here she turned slightly to him and gave a small smile. “I believe I would be more cautious before insulting someone. Your armor seems oddly bare, so what place does a rankless, warband castout of a gladium like you have in spewing such unkind words?”

The guard gave a snarl, bearing his weapon and stomping closer. His tail lashed the air furiously. “Why, you-!”

“Ah-ah!” She held up a hand. “What would your supervisor say if he saw you abandoning your post, soldier? You’ve already been cast out once. Do you really think he’d be so lenient as to allow a risk such as yourself to go unpunished?”

He gave another growl, his ears pinned back, and slowly, deliberately turned back and stalked to his post.

“I’d be more careful, mouse,” he rumbled, scraping his claws against the hilt of his sword. His eyes were burning slits. “I don’t care if you’re the most powerful walking cabbage in the world. No-one insults a charr without consequence.”

She simply turned back to her original path and continued walking. There was someone she had to meet.

 

 

The sylvari pursed her lips and sipped from her ale once more. Of all the establishments that her contact could have chosen to meet, the Serrated Blade was perhaps one of the roughest. The charr liked their drinks the same way they enjoyed their machinery – with plenty of strength and iron to them. She was glad to have ordered the smaller brew; it felt as though she was drinking motor oil that would leave her with a pounding headache later. Despite the scent, there was something addictive to it, and she finished it with a determined swig. The rising aftertaste caused her to cough, and she blinked away tears, clearing her throat and blinking rapidly. A low, amused chuckle reached her ears.

“You made a good choice, sylvari.” A sleek, black-furred charr stalked behind her and settled on the adjacent stool. “Not many can stand the Iron Legion’s specialty.” She held up a claw, and the owner set a mug of the thick brew in front of her. She nodded once, causing the gears in her horns to flash dully in the light of the braziers. Nettle as she drank the ale in a quick succession of gulps. “Ah, that’s the stuff,” she sighed contentedly. Her voice rasped, and her golden eyes inspected the sylvari shrewdly. “You’re not the kind to socialize much, are you?” she hummed with a low rolling sound in the back of her throat.

“Are you?” she asked curiously.

The charr sighed, sliding her mug back to the barkeep and resting her muzzle on her hand.    
“You know, after all this time, you think you’d remember how our transactions work,” Nettle said.

“Perhaps if it was less shady, I’d be more inclined to work with you.”

“All I request are a few of your delightful concoctions! You get paid, and I get what I want. Isn’t that how business transactions work?”

The charr shifted her gaze to the sylvari, leather armor sliding against itself. “What you are ordering,” she growled, her ears laying back against her horns, “are high-grade toxins. For the past month I’ve complied with your requests without saying a peep, but my superiors are beginning to get a bit twitchy about my shipments. Ingredients are beginning to be noticed as missing, and those who used to know about them are also gone.”

“Ooh, knifed them, did you? I like that.”

The charr snarled, and her mane of black fur trembled with rage as she hunched over the sylvari. “Warbands do _not_ knife themselves, mouse,” she growled. “I'm tired of paying off inquisitive minds.  What are you using my poisons for?”

Nettle sighed, looking at the greasy metal ceiling. “I should have known you’d eventually ask. Experiments. I’m using them in experiments.”

“What _kind_ of experiments?” The scent of lion and the tang of metal assaulted Nettle’s nostrils. “Answer me, sprout- you don’t just use those on simple fieldmice, do you?”

“And of what matter is it to you, charr? I thought you were fine with our arrangement.”

“I was, until a member of our Legion was found dead with a vial of my brew pumped into his skull. You were careless.”

“He deserved a public death.”

“He may have used unconventional means to find his information, but had he not made the decision to send his troops into Fireheart Rise, we would have had no opportunity to discover the threat of those human Separatists!”

“I’m sure the surrounding villages were very thankful for their crops being burned down. Winter killed the innocents of that raid.”

“And _you_ killed a commanding officer!” The charr stood, hackles raised. Some of the other patrons paused their drinking to give them curious or irritated looks.

Nettle cleared her throat, and the charr flicked her eyes at the spectators, who returned slowly to their mugs.

“Perhaps we should take this someplace more private,” the charr muttered. She hefted a large, flaming rifle over her shoulder. “If you still want my business, there are some things we’ll need to sort out.”


	41. Arc 3, Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin and Tiachren find Ysvelta.

 

“Don’t move a muscle. Don’t breathe, don’t look in the cages, and don’t say a single word,” Tiachren hissed. The few guards around them ran back to their original positions. Some went to the gate, others to the weapons. _They_ had been fortunate enough to have been assigned to prisoner duty, though Llumin struggled with Tiachren’s order to stay away from the cages.

“What are those noises?” she whispered, her blue eyes glowing in the dim light. In the orange light that ran in veins through his pale skin, she saw his lips tighten.

“Like I said,” he replied, a far-off crack and a scream interrupting him, “don’t look.” His head suddenly whipped up, and his eyes widened. “Ysvelta.  I sense her,” he murmured.

Llumin’s heart panged in sympathy. “Don’t worry,” she said softly, reaching out and placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “She’ll be fine.”

“I know she is,” he smiled. Hope lit his features.

 

 

Despite his assurance, she couldn’t help but feel as though something was off. Her eyes slowly turned to the wall of prisoners next to them. Sylvari, some shivering, others staring in mute defiance, were lined in thorned hollows and cages. She recognized some of their faces from her birth. Though she didn’t know their names, a surge of determination flooded through her. She set her jaw and glanced around before striding toward them.

“What are you doing?” Tiachren hissed as she walked by.

“We already know Ysvelta’s alive,” she replied, grip tightening on her sword. “But these Dreamers don’t know their fates. You go ahead and find your wife; I’ll set these prisoners free.”

“What of the guards?”

“There aren’t too many. You heard Renvari; if he doesn’t get a new batch of sylvari by sunset, our skins won’t be the only ones burning. Everyone who wants a good chance at self-preservation is on the hunt- the Coil is desperately-low on numbers. If we want to free those who have not yet turned, this is our best chance.”

For a moment, she thought he would argue. Then, his face relaxed, and he nodded. “After you’ve freed them, follow me down the main hall. There may be more guards hidden there.”

“I’ll see you soon, then.” She smiled. “Say hello to Ysvelta for me.”

 

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” The prisoner looked up at her warily as she fumbled with the lock, seafoam-green eyes gleaming from walnut-brown skin. “I won’t fall for it. I won’t go into Nightmare!”

“Relax,” Llumin whispered. She imbued her words with magic, sending the resonance into his ears with the gentleness of a spring breeze.

The prisoner’s shoulders slumped visibly. “You- you really mean it?” he whispered.  Llumin gave a triumphant smile as the lock clicked and fell open. Thin, twiggy fingers clasped desperately at her own. “Oh, Pale Tree bless you, bless you, bless you,” he sobbed quietly.

Llumin gently pried her hands free. “There will be time for thanks later,” she said. “For now, gather your senses about you and prepare to flee.” Her eyes caught the form of another sylvari curled onto the floor. “What of your companion?”

The light in the freedman’s eyes dimmed. “He is dead. The Nightmare Court thought that leaving his body in here would persuade me to turn to their side. They almost were right.” He smiled back up at her. “But you proved them wrong, eh? I’ll head down the other way and free the prisoners by the entrance.”

“Good. Don’t wait for me to leave. How will you pick the locks?”

He looked back at her, fierce determination in his eyes. “I might be weak from refusing their poisoned food, but I am still a Shaper. If I can direct a vine in this rotten hole, I can use it to pick the locks. It shouldn’t take too long. If it isn’t too much to ask, though, would you have any food to spare? Hope may give one strength, but…”

She pressed a skin of water into his hands and gave him a chunk of grilled fish. “It’s not much, but for an empty stomach, it should be enough. Be careful.”

“You, too,” he whispered, stepping unsteadily down the hall.

 

 

Llumin turned her attention back to the gates. She finally freed the last prisoner and was preparing to head down and check on the first when she heard a cry that echoed throughout the air with such terrible agony that her mind reverberated with its pain.

 _Tiachren,_ her mind whispered. She grabbed the hilt of her sword, readied her torch, and charged down the hall.

 

She found him on his knees with his head buried in his hands. A sky-skinned sylvari bent over him with a sad smile.

“Why are you weeping, my love?” she asked.  Something in her voice chilled Llumin to her bones.  “We have each other now. I thought I had lost you.”

“Ysvelta, Ysvelta,” he whispered, his voice tormented. “Why did you do this? Why did you listen to them?”

“I don’t understand why you’re crying,” she said.  Her voice was like a song.  “I have had the veil torn from my eyes. The Pale Tree is lying to us, holding us back by the words of a dead human and centaur who could never understand our kind.”

“Ysvelta?” Llumin stepped forward cautiously. The sylvari’s eyes snapped up to hers, gleaming suspiciously.

“Who is this?” she asked. Her voice was still pleasant, but there was an undercurrent that crackled with magic.

“A… a companion.” Tiachren’s voice cracked. He did not face his wife. “I thought we could save you.”

She threw her head back and laughed- a cold, ringing sound that felt like knives in Llumin’s skull.

“Save me?” she said incredulously. “Why would I need saving? I am the one who is safe. The Court has freed me from my old ways.  It is you and the Pale Tree who need to be saved.” She bent down and held Tiachren’s chin in her hand, tipping his face up to look at her own. He refused to meet her gaze. “Join me, my love. Come, and learn what it means to be truly sylvari.”

“Tiachren, don’t listen to her,” Llumin cautioned, drawing her sword and stepping towards her. “That isn’t her speaking.  She has been corrupted by Nightmare. You have to let her go.”

“Oh, come now, who are you listening to?” Ysvelta bared her teeth in a savage snarl and released him. “This little blossom looks as though she can’t be more than a month old. Leave her behind. You know you belong with me.”

“Stop this,” he whispered. He finally raised his gaze and met hers. “Stop these lies, Ysvelta.” He reached up and gently grasped her wrists. “Come home. Come home with me. The Pale Mother will understand.”

Llumin stepped next to him, eyes narrowed. Her sword was still at her side. “You cannot possibly think that inflicting this kind of pain and suffering on others is what we are truly meant to do,” she said, staring at the blue-skinned sylvari.

“Life is pain, young one,” Ysvelta retorted, turning to look at her. “The sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll be free. The citizens of Caer Astorea will know this soon.  In fact, I have been selected to lead a raid against them!” She beamed.  “Isn’t that exciting, my love?”

Tiachren released her hands and stood. A dull flame burned in his eyes. “You are not the woman that I married.”  He stepped away; his voice cracked.  “These Courtiers have corrupted you.”

For a moment, Ysvelta was silent.  Her face flickered between rage, grief, and madness. “I am not the one who is corrupt, Tiachren.  But if you refuse to believe me, know that I will not be swayed,” she snapped, her voice trembling yet resolute. “I will have you, my love.  If it will not be in life,” she swept her hand in an arc, and several shimmering clones appeared at her side --  “then I will have you in death!”

With that, she disappeared into the shadows, and several Courtiers slunk into the light.

“It’s an ambush,” Llumin whispered. Tiachren stood rooted in despair and shock. “Tiachren, we have to fight!” she shouted.

From around them, the clones spoke with the voice of the lost Ysvelta. “If you ever truly loved me, meet me where we first met!”

 _That is assuming we survive,_ Llumin thought grimly. Her mouth thinned into a line, and she shifted into a battle stance. Tiachren slowly raised his weapons. In the choked light of that horrid place, she could have sworn that as he readied himself to fight, a single tear trickled down his lips before it plunged into the shadows below.

“I won’t lose her so easily,” he hissed. The Courtiers above them drew back their arrows and fired.


	42. Arc 3, Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nettle re-joins the party; Myrie goes over the current plan.

 

“There you are!” Myrie huffed.  She moved from where she had been leaning by the Grove’s asura gate. “Sylfia here thought you’d gone off and killed someone.”

“Oh, not yet, not today,” Nettle replied with a mild smile, dusting off her skirts.  She smelled of metal and oil. “I simply had some business to attend to.”

Sylfia’s pointed nose twitched. “So you _have_ offed someone,” she groaned.  “That explains the scent…”

Nettle shot her a glare. “Must everything I do relate to death and dying? That’s a rather negative stereotype, my dear drunkard.”

Selana walked up from a lower bower and checked her weapons one more time.  “Is everyone ready?”

They all snapped to attention. Elmfrond raised his hand.

“Lady Firestone, what exactly is my expected position here?”

“You are here to fight, Elmfrond. If necessary, you and Myrie will be sent ahead to find out about an area, especially if we are uncertain as to what we will face.”

He nodded. “Not a bad plan. Myrie, if we do need to scout a place, should we stick together, or-?”

“We’ll split up. I don’t know about you, but I’m not half bad at dodging irate fighters.” She smirked at Sylfia, who pointedly ignored her and proceeded to mutter darkly under her breath. “Not only that, but we’ll be able to get a better view of what the terrain is like. Sound good?”

“It should work,” he said. His eyes gleamed excitedly. “I must admit, I’ve never been terribly far from the Grove. I can’t wait!”

“You’ll have to for another few minutes,” Selana said simply. “Before we head out, I want to be sure that everyone’s ready.”

There was a brief clamor where all restated their eagerness and preparedness. Sylfia complained only momentarily about a headache and lack of alcohol before Nettle pulled out a flask of brew from her bag and tossed it at her.

“It’s strong stuff,” she cautioned.

The warrior caught and uncorked the bottle and gave it a sniff.  Her brows rose.  “I thought you weren’t one for drinks this potent.”

Nettle grimaced. “I’m not.”

“All right, review time,” Myrie called over the clamor. “We head out, see if anyone knows where Llumin has gone, and hopefully gain the quickest path to where she is. Elmfrond will be able to make a positive identification. If she’s undercover, he, I, and Nettle will infiltrate the area, setting traps and helping her from the shadows. Should it appear as though her life is in danger, I’ll give a signal shot, and Selana and Sylfia will come charging in with the rage of Balthazaar. We good?”

“I’m as ready as I believe I will ever be. Let’s just hope she’s safe and in one place,” Selana said. She used her staff to sling her pack over her shoulder and began walking towards the city gates. “Let’s move.”


	43. Arc 3, Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiachren wrestles with Ysvelta's fate. Llumin's abilities of clear-thinking and mesmeric capabilities are tested.

 

Llumin spoke as gently and forcibly as possible. “You have to let her go. This is not the Ysvelta you once knew. Don’t let this Nightmare get inside your head.”

“But that _was_ her,” Tiachren replied, running a shaking hand over his brow. “I may have once believed that those who fall to Nightmare are truly irredeemable, but now…”

“Her fall is no different from those who have gone before her, Tiachren.”  She looked from the broken bodies of the Courtiers and back to him.  “I wish it wasn’t so – I wish I could tell you that others weren’t worthy – ”

“They weren’t her! Ysvelta was the kindest, gentlest soul, and compassionate towards anyone who suffered. This... It’s as if some other creature has taken over her body.” He nudged a nearby corpse with the toe of his boot, his face obscured in shadow. “Do you really believe that she’s a total loss, Llumin?  Is there truly no other way to free her but through death?”

  Llumin sighed and pursed her lips.  “Tiachren, before she fled, Ysvelta said something about meeting you in a place you first met. Do you know where that is?”

 “Yes.”  He raised his face from the body he had been kicking and looked through her.  “The garden where we first met – where we were wed. If the Nightmare is puppeting her, I would find it horrifying to know that it is aware of so much.”

“The Nightmare has never truly been sentient, Tiachren,” the mesmer said.  Despite her best efforts, her nerves were wearing thin, and her voice was growing more irate.  “You must realize that this is what is left of _her_. If she’s trying to lure you to that garden, you must not go.”

His gaze flashed. “And why not?” His voice cracked, and his tone softened.  “Without her, I don’t know who I am.”

“You are the Knight of the Moon.  You have been the Knight before her, and you will be him even if Ysvelta is forever gone. I saw that same shield you use in my Dream.”

“This shield,” he replied slowly; he raised it to his eye level, “was her gift to me.”

“And would you cast aside that legacy because of the Nightmare’s touch?” She leaned and stared at his downcast face. “She gave that to you to defend the innocent, did she not?  Would you set it aside to let her now trample them?”

He was silent. She straightened and sighed.

“If you can’t think properly concerning her, think of Caer Astorea,” she said grimly.  “In mere hours, without any warning, this corrupted Ysvelta is going to lead an attack on the innocents of that village. You can either go to the garden by yourself, or you can come with me and warn the Wardens. The choice is yours.”

 

 

She stood and began to walk back towards Hemlock Coil’s main hall. She could not let him see her insecurity, her worry that his mind, so heavily clouded by seething emotion, would lead him down a path that would leave him in darkness.  
  Was love really so powerful? Could its loss somehow pull such a stalwart knight to such desperation? She paused and turned her head back towards Tiachren, who stood still in the clearing, his stance defiant and his back ramrod straight. Her throat tightened with unease. Losing him to Nightmare was too great a risk to take.  
  She took a breath and cleared her mind. Ignoring her wriggling sense of guilt, she extended her awareness towards him. With a little effort, she sent an idea into his mind. _Go to the Wardens,_ she thought. His head twitched to the side as if shaking off an annoying bug. _Ysvelta is gone,_ she pressed, gentle but unyielding. _Save the innocent. You are a knight; protect your people from those who would destroy them._  
   He was resisting, his mind stubbornly churning and returning to the thought of his wife. A spike of terror stabbed her spine. Deep in the darkest corners of his mind, she saw a tendril of doubt rising.  
   _No. Joining the Nightmare Court will not save her. Resist its call._ She pressed further into his psyche, straining her abilities, and formed a mental projection of herself that she sent into his stormy mind.  In the center of his empathetic vortex of seething emotions, his image knelt, bent over and clutching at his head. She willed her consciousness deeper into his own and sent her own form towards him.

  “Let her go,” she whispered gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “The true Ysvelta is dead. Remember who she was; what would she want you to do?”

The inner Tiachren gazed up at her from a tear-stained face. He said nothing, his eyes dark with sorrow.

  “You are the Knight of the Moon. You need not accept defeat this day.  This night is painful, but it will pass.  All is not lost.” She lifted him to his feet, and with that final push of thought, she felt his mind bend. She gradually faded from his thoughts, returning to her own body and opening her eyes. The Knight of the Moon had picked up his shield, and his gaze was steadily boring into hers.

“Caer Astorea holds no chance of survival against a surprise attack,” he said finally. “We cannot let them die because of my foolish hope.”

Llumin gave a weary smile. “Then let us go help them.  Lead on.”


	44. Arc 3, Chapter 13

 

Myrie was used to being the first and fastest member of her “traveling circus,” but with Elmfrond striding alongside her in the shadows, she found that he was slightly faster than she at navigating the wooded, lush jungle by the Grove. Her eyes narrowed, and she lunged forward, determined to keep pace. Their height difference didn’t help her very much. Although she was abler to dodge stray branches and vines, his longer legs gave him increased speed.

“Hold up!” she finally hissed. She propelled herself forward and nearly kicked him in the back of his head as she latched onto another branch.

“Be careful!” he replied.  His voice carried with irritating cheeriness through the thick leaves.

  Myrie made a brave attempt at shackling her growing annoyance.  In a way, he reminded her of when she was young and learning how to navigate the streets of Divinity’s Reach through varied acrobatics.  Back then, the sensation of the wind in her hair had been a new and thrilling sensation; although it still was exciting, nothing could match the first experience, but in a mission where search-and-rescue or retrieval were the goals, giddiness was the least of her concerns.

“I haven’t forgotten the mission,” he whispered as if reading her thoughts. She somehow managed to keep herself from leaping off the branch in shock. “Even though I’ve only met her once, I doubt Llumin would ever join the Nightmare Court,” he said. “There’s something different about her, but it’s nothing too concerning.”

“Well, that’s reassuring. What are these ‘Nightmare Court,’ anyway?”

  He narrowed his eyes as he calculated the leap to the next branch. “They’re sylvari who have rejected the tenets of Ventari’s Tablet, which acts as a moral compass for most of our race. The centaur Ventari wrote his proverbs and meditations on a white stone before his death. As the Pale Tree grew, that stone became cradled in her branches. If you get the chance to visit the Pale Mother, you can still see it – at least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

 Myrie landed heavily alongside him.  “You’ve never met your own mother?”

“She’s rather busy.” He sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes flicked down to the forest floor, where Selana’s bright hair, Sylfia’s ruddy skin, and Nettle’s oily armor gleamed in the sunlight. “How are your companions keeping up so well?”

“Selana’s an elementalist. She’s probably using wind magic or something like it to keep pace. Do you see anything out of the ordinary yet?”  Try as she might, she couldn’t quite make anything out from among the trees; one patch of green looked much like another.

“No.”  He paused.  “Wait! Do you see that bramble-covered area over there?”

She squinted.  “That black, thorny basket-thing?.”

“Yes, that’s it. According to what I’ve heard, Llumin and some guardian were headed that way.”

“Well, then, let’s see what we can find.”

 

 

“All clear!” Myrie’s voice rang through the trees, startling a few flocks of toucans from their perches as she lowered herself to the ground. “Might want to step carefully, though. There are bodies everywhere.”

Selana stepped gingerly into the clearing, eyes scouring the fallen. “What happened?”

Nettle slunk beside her, bending over a corpse and staring into its unblinking eyes. “There appears to have been quite a struggle,” she hummed. A long, white finger stroked the ancient skull at her side. “Adam says this is the result of two fighters. He can still sense their presence.”

“Who’s Adam?” Elmfrond had slid down a vine and landed softly on his feet.

“A human skull.” Myrie lowered her voice. “She uses it as a focus.  Claims it talks to her. Says she found it by an ancient Ascalonian grave.”

“Well, shouldn’t she have left it there, then?”

Myrie rolled her eyes.  “You know necromancers. They can’t help themselves.”

“Actually, Adam said he was getting rather annoyed that his former companion wasn’t returning from death. Since he was tired of hearing her voice yammering on about her adventures in the Underworld, he made me his new bearer.” Nettle’s smile did not reach her eyes. “We necromancers hear more than just the dead, you know.”

Myrie cleared her throat. “So, does Adam have anything else to say about Llumin or this other sylvari?”

“Well, they’re not dead. Their essence is still strong, but there appears to be some psychic resonance here that’s muddling their steps. Sylfia, watch your big clunking feet. You’ll mess up the evidence.”

“Oi, I’m jus’ trying to see if I recognize any of these blighters. I think I remember hearing ‘bout one of their leaders a while back, but I’ll only be able to tell if- ah, there we are.” She knelt and pointed out one of the bodies, which had a blackened hole burned through her. The corpse’s mouth was open in agony, and an amber-like substance, blackened at the edges, had bubbled out of her mouth.

“She’s been burned alive from the inside out,” Sylfia grunted, standing. “Renvari’s the one who led this place. Pyromaniac and cruel to boot. If Llumin and whoever she’s with are still alive, once word reaches him of their deception, they may not be for long.”


	45. Arc 3, Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin and Tiachren and the Traveling Circus near Caer Astorea.

 

“Someone’s following us.” Tiachren’s eyes narrowed as he peered behind them and into the thick brush.

“I doubt that it’s the Nightmare Court,” Llumin said.  “As far as I know, we didn’t leave any survivors that would know our destination.”

“Just the same,” he said, drawing his sword and continuing forward, “we’d best keep on our guard.”

Llumin nodded. She tried extending her awareness further ahead. After a moment, she shook her head and winced. She had strained herself greatly when she bent Tiachren’s will back to reason. Even now she kept a wary sense on his mind. He was unstable; if he decided to try running back to Ysvelta, she had a sinking feeling that he would not return the same.

“Is there something you’re concerned about?” he asked. She blinked, turning to face him. His eyes were stormy, and a jolt of pain rent her heart. If this was what he was like _after_ the battle of wills, then how would he feel when he had to see his wife again?

“Nothing much,” she lied, brushing a thick, waxy leaf out of her path. “Let’s keep moving.”

~~~

“Did you see that?” Elmfrond squinted down from the treetops, focused on something distant on the lush floor.

“What?” Myrie wiped the back of her hand on her mouth, grimacing at an insect that she inadvertently smeared on her lips. “Gross,” she hissed, feverishly rubbing her face again.

“You aren’t even looking- hold on, you’ve got a spider leg on your cheek.”

“A _what?”_

“Kidding! It was a beetle wing.”

“Oh, that makes it _so_ much better,” she said peevishly. “What do you see, Leafy?”

He pointed down at the grasses. “There are a bunch of broken and bent leaves heading towards Caer Astorea.”

“You mean that deer trail?”

His eyes widened. “No, I was talking about the wider one. That one’s more interesting.”

“How so?”

He leaned away from the tree, holding loosely onto a branch and dangling out in the air. “We sylvari try to use paths that go with nature. Animal trails or otherwise-established tracks allow us to move through the forest while disturbing as few creatures as possible. However, that wide one,” he restated, pointing with his free hand to the crushed greenery once more, “seems more like something that would be left by a small army.”

Myrie arched a cynical eyebrow. “Your small army is rather efficient at hiding their steps, then. I would have thought it was made by an angry boar.”

“And that,” he said proudly, “is why you are not sylvari.”

She whipped her head towards him with a glare, but he had returned his gaze to the greenery below.

“What if the bodies we found weren’t all of the Coil’s occupants?” he wondered aloud. “It _did_ seem like a small force that had been there.”

“What are you saying?”

His face was taut with solemn fear. “I’m saying that the rest of the Courtiers of that bramble-pit are on the hunt. If Caer Astorea isn’t made aware of the approaching danger, they could very well be slaughtered.” He leapt from the branch, ignoring Myrie’s shout of alarm, gripped a vine, and slid down onto the ground, landing heavily in front of Selana.

“Be careful!” she ordered.

“We are quite possibly running into a combat zone,” Elmfrond stated.

The elementalist narrowed her eyes. “Explain.”

~~~

Llumin had been as careful as possible to disguise her steps and those of Tiachren as well.

“Are we still being pursued?” she asked quietly. Her blood hummed in her ears.

“I believe so, but I doubt it is by the rest of the Nightmare Court. Regardless, we must shift our concern.” He pointed towards the town, where the citizens of Caer Astorea were milling about their lives, completely unaware of the danger that approached. “The good news is that we’ve arrived before the Nightmare Court.”

  Llumin’s knuckles whitened beneath her pale cream skin.  “Let’s start organizing a defense. We may not have much time.”

 

The Wardens acted quickly. After explaining the danger to them, Tiachren and Llumin helped with escorting civilians from the town. Those who remained shored up the defenses, readying countermeasures to protect the town from the Court.

“Do you hear them yet?” Llumin asked, breathing shallow as she hefted a panel onto a makeshift barricade.

“No, but keep moving,” Tiachren replied, pausing to direct a confused woman towards a safe area in the back of the town. “Don’t come out until you have received the signal,” he ordered. “We will do our best to save what we can. If you can find a willing runner, tell them to go to the Grove and bring healers in case of any severe injuries. We may not be able to treat everyone.”

She nodded, wide-eyed, and took off. An expectant silence smothered the town. Wardens stood at the area’s entry points, weapons drawn and eyes wary.

“Now what?” Llumin asked, peering intensely at the shadows.

“We keep our guards up and pray that the Mother Tree watches over us,” he replied. An uncertain smile bloomed on his face; for what reason, Llumin did not know.

~~~

“We’re catching up to them. What should we do if we meet the Court on our way?” Elmfrond’s face was a shifting mask of confusion, excitement, and worry.

Sylfia growled. “Whaddayer think we’re gonna do, sprout? We’re gonna flank ‘em. If Llumin’s related to this crazy elementalist – ” here she nodded her head at Selana, “ – then she’ll probably already have gotten everyone to safety and prepared counterattacks.” She smirked with cynical respect. “It’s in their blood to look out for others over their own safety,” she said. “Granted, if we try to charge in without any warning, even if it’s to offer help of any sort, she’ll probably shoot first and ask questions later.”

Selana gave her a look. “Do you believe me to be so impulsive?”

“No, but this ain’t you we’re dealing with. If Oi were part of a defense team, anything that wasn’t on our side would be marked hostile until otherwise proven. We fight ‘gainst the Court, we prove our mettle, and then we’ll ‘ave a lovely reunion where libations abound.”  Sylfia raised her arms in mock triumph.

Myrie rolled her eyes. “I sincerely doubt there’s going to be any alcohol immediately following a skirmish, you drunk log.”

The warrior’s arms lowered into a shrug. “Never know.”

“And I would be careful with any ideas of ‘reunion,’” Nettle hummed, pursing her lips. “If she displays any excess of interest towards Selana, then I could see revealing her true nature. If not, I recommend we keep this one under wraps. Aggravating any possible memory suppression could lead to intense psychic backlash.” 

  
  Sylfia sneered.  “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“Balthazar’s beard, shut up!” Myrie snapped.  Her voice was just below a shout; the other members looked her way in shock. She paused, ran her hand down her face, and continued. “Look, if we’re going to have any chance of flanking these guys, we need to be quiet and go in stealthy. That’s why Selana wanted us to scout, remember?   Elmfrond and I will let you know if or when the Nightmare Court break into the town, but until then, I suggest everyone keep quiet and play nice. We’ll fire a shot to let you know to rush in. Are we clear?”

A rare smile played across Selana’s face. “Very well. We’ll remain at the ready for your signal. Go at ‘em, Myrie.”

Briefly shocked at such an informal statement from the elementalist, Myrie simply nodded and clambered back into the trees.

 


	46. Arc 3, Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Caer Astorea.

 

The Nightmare Court did not announce their presence loudly. They slunk their way through the forest and only made themselves known when they let loose a hail of black arrows, tipped with deadly poisons that ravaged the flesh of those they struck.

“Get down!” Tiachren roared, conjuring a magical barrier to deflect the attack. “This is only the first wave! Brace the gates!”

The wood was reinforced with vines, but it still buckled under the Court’s assault. A Shaper turned to him, her face taut with fear.

“We can’t hold out forever! I’m using all of my concentration to strengthen the vines, but -”

An arrow dove from the sky and struck her in the throat; she crumpled to the ground with a gurgling gasp.

“They’re upon us!” Llumin cried, leaping back as another arrow bit hungrily into the ground by her feet. “Prepare yourselves!”

The gate held for a few more seconds before buckling beneath the assault. Nightmare courtiers swarmed into the clearing and were met with the swords and shields of its defenders. At the back of the chaos stood its two directors, eyes gleaming with mad glee and ravenous hunger.

 

Llumin saw Tiachren’s sword falter as he stared at them. Although she recognized Renvari, Ysvelta’s lovely features had been altered by the frenzy etched across them, transforming them into an unrecognizable mask of animalian bloodlust. Renvari stalked forward alongside her, his face grim and eyes glittering as he conjured a set of flaming blades. Ysvelta caught sight of her husband and began to cut through the defenders like an elegant thorn.

“I told you I would have you,” she called to Tiachren. “Whether or not you join me in death or in the Court is your decision, love. But ask yourself this- is it worth risking these lovely people,” she paused, gripping the throat of an orange-skinned sylvari, and gazed directly at him, “just to keep yourself ‘pure?’” She squeezed, and with the crunching of delicate veins, dropped his corpse. “Wouldn’t it be more pleasant,” she asked, sending mesmeric clones of herself forward and shattering them on a guard to his right, “if you were to simply come with me?” She was nearly upon them now, and Llumin was stuck fighting alongside the Wardens in a different part of the town, unable to reach Tiachren.

“Stay strong!” the mesmer screamed above the chaos and din of battle.  She could no longer keep her influence over his mind. “Don’t listen to her!”

He was silent.   The forms around him seethed and struggled as he stood still, his face unreadable. Ysvelta weaved forward, walking gracefully towards him and cupping his face with a delicate blue hand.  Around them, the din of the battle quieted.

“Come with me,” she whispered, her eyes seeking his. “Don’t you remember what we once were?”  She gently traced his jawline. He reached up and touched her hand; his fingers shook as he ran a thumb over the back of her fingers. 

“What we once were,” he whispered uncertainly, staring at their twined fingers. A heartbeat, two heartbeats passed.

His gaze snapped back to hers. Uncertainty and fear flashed upon her face, and her smile faltered. With a roar of rage, he cast down her hand. It was only her reflexes that saved her from death; she blocked his savage strike with her sword and rolled back, eyes wide.

“How dare you say that to me!” he snarled, voice cracking. “Would the woman I loved murder innocents?” He rushed at her again; his sword broke through a clone which had taken her place. “Would the woman I knew kill for pleasure?”

“Tiachren –!”

“Do not speak my name, witch!” he roared. “You chose your path! Now let me choose mine.”

~~~

“And that’s our cue,” Myrie grinned, firing a shot into the trunk of her perch. “Let’s give those bad heads some knocking!”  


 

  
Llumin’s heart soared. He had made his choice; the Nightmare would not claim him today. Although thrilled by the choice he made, now was not the time for celebration. Spittle flecked her face, and she turned to the side, grimacing as a snarling Courtier leapt towards her and landed on her drawn sword.

  
“Well, that was stupid of you,” she muttered, kicking away his corpse. A roar alerted her to a charging knight, and she quickly rolled to the side and dodged his attack. “Does the Nightmare Court make you an idiot in addition to a megalomaniac?” she shouted, punting him in the rear as he flew past. He fell to the ground with a yelp, which she cut short with her blade.  
“Tiachren?” she shouted.

  
“Do not interfere!” he commanded, panting as he blocked Ysvelta’s wild swing with his shield. He was bleeding from several wounds on his face and arms. “This is my fight!”

  
Well, that’s all very good and fine of you, she thought, gasping as she whirled below a stroke that nearly cleft her neck in two, but there is a town to concern yourself with! Their defenses were running low; natural-grown turrets had been decimated, and the Wardens who remained were concerning themselves with ensuring the safety of the citizens. Oh, Pale Mother, she prayed, arms weary and lungs burning, help us.

A shadow fell from the canopy above, landing on a courtier’s shoulders. It fired two shots into his head, flipped off of his still-standing corpse, and landed behind her, still shooting at the surrounding enemies. A strange, fleshy face grinned up at her, eyes bright.

  
“Heya! Name’s Myrie Ward, and I’ve brought assistance.”

  
A red horror of a sylvari lunged from the shattered gate, roaring in fury and with a hammer of ancient stone. She was followed by another agile form that weaved through the air with a set of daggers and maroon, leafy hair. The last to follow were a pale necromancer who grasped a skull and a fire-headed, ivory woman who rained fire upon the attacking forces.  
“Don’t strike those guys and try not to worry,” the woman behind her continued, arms jolting from her pistols’ recoil. “The red one’s Sylfia, greenie’s Elmfrond, and pale leafy’s Nettle. I’m human, as is the tall one over there who keeps ashing those nasty Nightmare whatsits.” She swapped to a set of daggers and crouched low. “Excuse me a moment,” she said. With that, she leapt back into the writhing mass of bodies in the town’s center.

  
  Llumin nodded mutely, realizing to warn the human from lunging into the thickest part of the battle. She blinked and refocused on the task at hand. Tiachren and Ysvelta still struggled in the corner of the town, and Renvari was by the gates.   
  Whoever these people were, they had seemed to turn the tides of battle; Nightmare Courtiers and Wardens alike were briefly stunned by their appearance, and it took a precious second for the attackers to realize that the newcomers were not on their side.

  
“Regroup!” Renvari snarled, pointing his sword at a nearby lackey. “Don’t let these simpering fools convince you they’ve won! We won’t give up until they’re all turned to Nightmare or ash!”

  
The whimpering Courtier turned to respond but was launched skyward from below. Renvari’s eyes widened as the screeching Courtier pinwheeled through the air and landed heavily on a spiked tower. He whirled back to the empty space where his guard had been. “Who are you?” he spat, arching an eyebrow at the figure in front of him.

  
The stone hammer-head lowered, revealing an angular face whose features were twisted in a vicious snarl of glee.

  
“Name’s Sylfia Wyldcaller,” she grinned, hefting her hammer high. “And Oi’m gonna be the one to smash yer pretty likkle ‘ead into paste!”

 

 

 “Duck!” Myrie snapped, throwing a blade over Elmfrond’s descending head.  
  It landed with a thick _thump_ in a Courtier’s chest. He glanced back at her and nodded in gratitude before returning the gesture.   She thanked him and delivered a swift hook to her opponent’s jaw; he staggered back, and she discharged her pistols into his exposed neck, grimacing as a strange, raw-pumpkin–and-electric-scented matter splattered her armor and cheek.

 “Gross,” she hissed, shuddering. She craned her neck behind her. “How are you holding up, Flamey-locks?”

A white-hot bolt of fire slammed into a charging fighter, throwing him heavily against a tree. His corpse slumped to the ground, a smoking crater blasted into it. “Fine,” she replied calmly. “And you?”

“I’ve got sentient salad brains on my face, so, not so great!”

Myrie could have sworn she heard a dry chuckle. “Well, at least you’ve still got your wits about you. How are the defenses?”

Elmfrond leapt down from the branches, bringing two less-graceful Courtiers crashing to the ground with him. “We’re gaining ground!” he declared.

Llumin let out a triumphant cry. “Fight on!” she called to the defenders. “We can drive them back!”

Myrie strained her gaze across the town. Her eyes widened. “Sylfia?” she gasped.

The fiery warrior was battling against a golden sylvari whose blades of lava left trails of sulfuric smoke in the air.

“Busy!” she snarled, her face a mask of bloodlust and murderous giddiness. “Quit dancin’ around!”

“That would rather nullify the purpose of my movements, wouldn’t it?” Renvari smiled widely as he leapt away from the crushing Ascalonian stone, which left a heavy dent in the fertile soil. “Tell me,” he hummed, flinging another bolt of fire at her feet, “how did you manage to look so _perfectly_ burned?”

“Sore subject, pretty-boy,” the warrior growled. She shortened the grip on her hammer and used it as a reinforced fist to punch at his exposed arm. Although the strike missed its intended target, she let out a satisfied grin when she heard the wet _crack_ of a breaking rib.

He growled, fingers shifting on his weapons’ molten handles. “As deadly as you are lovely, I see,” he mused. “The Court could use someone like you.”

“You aren’t really tryin’ to flirt with me, are ya?” she said incredulously. Her eyes narrowed to glittering slits of fury. The hammer thudded heavily onto the ground, catching a part of Renvari’s robe and tearing it. “You think I asked to look like this?”

“Well, I –”

His explanation was interrupted by Sylfia’s charging head. Acting quickly, he twisted his blades down and drove them into her shoulders. She let out a roar of pain and crumpled to her hands and knees.

“Such a pity,” he purred.  He straightened and stared down his nose at her, breathing ragged and face flickering with the light from his blades. “You have such great potential. At least you will burn well.”

“Go and burn yourself!” She reached behind her back with one free hand, wrenched the flaming swords from her body, and flung them onto the ground. Renvari’s eyes widened as she shook her hand with a pained hiss .  “Could use a bit of help over ‘ere!”

 A dull green glow on the ground alerted her to a necromantic well.

“Force him into that, and it’ll provide some help,” Nettle hummed, whipping her dagger against the throat of a Courtier. “We’re all rather busy.”

Renvari’s cool demeanor was cracking. Sylfia smirked, shifted her weight, and waited for an opening. When he next tried attacking, she raced towards him, kicking him off-balance and into Nettle’s trap. The necromancer’s magic lashed into him and leeched the Nightmare sylvari’s life away.   
_Her magic might be weird,_ Sylfia thought, _but roots, it sure can be handy._ She rushed forward with a grim smile and with hammer raised high – and was blasted in the face by a plume of flame.   
Renvari staggered to his feet and laughed as smoke coiled from his nostrils.

“What? Didn’t think I’d go down so easily, did you?” He spread his arms wide. “What kind of fire-wielder would I be if I couldn’t even breathe it?”

The flames had blinded her, wreathing around her shoulders like a halo of agony.  The embers in her shoulders from his blades responded to the fire he breathed and roared to life.  Was she screaming? She must have been; her mouth was open, and the unearthly howl she heard had to be coming from somewhere. The fire bit hungrily into her arms, her face, her stomach. She was reborn- a new sapling whose senses had turned from the thrill of battle to the horror and pain of being burned alive.

 

Myrie’s heart stopped as an otherworldly keening lanced through the air. Her head whipped to where she had last seen Sylfia- though that couldn’t possibly be her she was hearing, could it? – and her stomach dropped. “Selana!”

The elementalist batted a duo of attackers back with her staff, encasing them in stone and crushing them. She shot a questioning gaze towards the thief. Myrie pointed mutely towards the warrior’s crumpled form, engulfed in a halo of fire. Renvari stalked towards her, his swords raised high. Selana’s gaze flicked back to Myrie, and she nodded slightly. Llumin teleported back towards the gates.

“Wardens, rally! Push out who you can and focus on those who need aid.”

 

This was it. She would die like a pathetic worm, curled into a screaming, crying ball of flame and agony. How humiliating. Between the sounds of the all-encompassing blaze and her own shallow breaths, she heard the crunch of footsteps slowly approaching her. Renvari.

“I told you we could use someone like you,” he whispered, bending close to her ear. “Just give in to the pain. Imagine the power you could have if you harnessed it. Imagine the strength you could have if you used it against others.”

She did not reply, not even bothering to shake her head. He sighed, straightening. “Very well. You fought well, Sylfia. And now, you will die.”

Instead of feeling the final bite of his blade in her back, there was a sudden gust of wind. She forced her quivering muscles to her will, looking up where she had last heard his voice. He was nowhere to be seen. She twitched in surprise as water rippled over her back. The flames sputtered and hissed before being put out.

“Get back,” Selana ordered tautly. “You’ve fought well, but now’s not the time.”

Elmfrond materialized from the shadows and carefully raised her to her feet.

“I’ll make sure you get to the Wardens safely,” he said, casting a wary eye around them. “She needs help!” he called.

Selana turned back to Renvari, who had once more lurched to his feet. He frowned sourly at her. “You’ve ruined my game,” he spat.

“Lives are never games, weed,” Selana replied. A flaming greatsword materialized in her hands. “You claim to like fire so much?  Let’s see how well you fight one who was born for it.”

 

Llumin’s gaze was blurred from exhaustion. Her arms felt heavy, and her sword was slick with golden blood-sap.

  _How many more must fall before they retreat?_ she wondered, driving her sword through the neck of a Courtier. She couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt as her foes’ life force was pulled from their bodies in a rattling gasp or acceptant sigh. _Focus,_ she ordered herself, blinking and seeking once more the familiar face of Tiachren.

“Please stop this.” His voice carried on the winds. “We don’t have to fight.”

Ysvelta shook her head slowly, a smile of resignation on her lips. “Either one of us dies, or we stay together in Nightmare. Those are my only terms, love.” She slashed down at him, but her stroke was wide and easily-parried. Tiachren reflexively struck at her, and his face paled in horror as his blade bit deeply into her side. With a cry of pain, Ysvelta crumpled to the ground, clutching her abdomen. Tiachren dropped his sword and fell to her side. Her arm rose- was she about to clutch a weapon for one last strike?

She stroked his lips with a quivering thumb. He let out a muffled sob.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.  He pressed his pale forehead to hers.

“Don’t be,” she whispered.  A thin ribbon of blood dribbled down her lips. “Hush…”

He grit his teeth. “I should have been stronger; I should have kept fighting to save you.”

She shook her head. “ _I_ was trying to free _you_.”

Llumin slowly walked toward them. “Tiachren, step back,” she whispered. His empty gaze met hers. “For your own good, put her down,” she said. Slowly, with unwilling hands and fingers loathe to leave his wife’s broken body, he stood.

Llumin knelt by her.  “Do you have any last words?” The Nightmare sylvari coughed and spat at her.

“Not for you,” she rattled. Her eyes sought Tiachren. Llumin looked from him to her.

“Try anything,” she whispered to her, “and your last moments will be nothing but agony.”

Ysvelta's laugh was hollow. “They already are.”

Tiachren knelt by her. The blue sylvari’s lips moved in a whisper, too soft for Llumin to hear. After a moment, he stood, face impassive.

“Get it over with,” Ysvelta hissed, blood trickling from her teeth. Llumin nodded. Quick as a thought, she slashed Ysvelta’s throat, and Tiachren let out a shout of betrayal.

“It wouldn’t have been right,” Llumin said quietly, ignoring his shouts of accusation.  She saw him turn his sword to her but was deaf to his cries. Her blue eyes bored into his.   “It wouldn’t have been right for you to kill your wife.” She forced through his consciousness with what little strength she had and smothered his awareness. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he slumped towards the earth. She caught him and eased his prone form onto the ground, her face shadowed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I only hope you can forgive me someday.”


	47. Arc 3, Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylfia's health worsens; the Traveling Circus goes to meet with the Pale Tree.

 

Renvari fell shortly after the death of his second-in-command. Selana had killed him as he killed so many before him; his demise was one of fire and blood, and his corpse was burned to blackened leaves and bone-like vines by the blazes of their fight. The battle had been won.

 

The Traveling Circus’s fighters sat wearily upon living seats. Sylfia had been hurried back into the Wardens’ tents, where she was surrounded by healers.

“When do you think she’ll be back?” Myrie asked, wincing as an herbal poultice was applied to one of her burns.

Nettle shrugged. “Her life force was weak when she was rescued from Renvari. With an attack like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if she went into some form of psychological and physical shock.”

“How can you be so calm?” Elmfrond asked. “One of your own team-mates has been severely injured –she may even die! How on earth could you possibly not be worried?”

“We _are_ concerned, though Nettle may have to speak for herself. Sylfia’s been in tough scrapes before,” Selana answered, shooting both parties a warning glare. “There’s no need for shouting. She was burned at birth; the fact that she did so well in this battle is nothing short of a miracle.”

“I’ll say.” Myrie grunted as a bandage was tightened around her arm. “So, what do we do now? Llumin seems a bit shaken up.”

“She was forced to kill the wife of one of her companions,” Nettle observed. “Apparently she’s feeling a bit of guilt.”

“I don’t know,” Myrie said. “She seemed a bit offish when she was still in the thick of it. Maybe it’s a mesmer thing, but I think she almost felt empathy towards those Nightmare sylvari.”

Nettle shrugged. “Well, the sooner we persuade her to join us, the better. I need to contact some of my associates and see if they know any more about the Elder Dragons.”

Myrie arched a brow. “Who _are_ your associates, anyway? I can’t imagine that too many people would want to hang out with a blood-drinker.”

“Tactful as always, Myrie,” Selana sighed. “But I will admit to being curious, as well.”

The sylvari only smiled – though some would say she bared her teeth. “I’m sure you’ll find out shortly. Oh, don’t worry; you’ll all live to meet them. You’re much too fascinating to simply die.”

At that moment, a Warden ducked out from a makeshift tent. “We have a problem,” he said grimly.

 

 

Sylfia’s condition was worsening. Although she had built up a certain resistance to fire, the attack by Renvari was catastrophic. Her breaths came in uncertain rattles, and bandages shrouded her like a mummy.

“Her wounds have just stopped oozing, but that’s only because Llumin managed to force her mind to settle down. She’s been induced into a sleep in the hopes that unconsciousness will help her body.”

“And has it worked?”

“Barely.” The Warden’s face darkened. “She’s having nightmares; although whether or not they’re from the attack, her own mind, or outside sources is yet to be determined.”

“What should we do?” Myrie bent over the sylvari, brow furrowed in concern. A weak mutter escaped from Sylfia’s cracked lips.

“Can’t….take ‘em. Won’t let…” Her voice was smothered by a fit of dry coughing. “Run…”

“She feels cool,” Selana murmured. “Is that normal?”

“Most sylvari have a lower body temperature than humans,” the Warden nodded. “But I will admit that her temperature might be falling. She burned off several layers of skin in that fight.”

“Adam says that she’s still fighting for life. I’ll keep an eye on her, but we may need more assistance than what can be provided here,” Nettle hummed. She walked outside the tent, where she found Llumin standing by its entrance. The dark-haired sylvari had been absently running a fingernail down the grooves in her sword’s pommel.

“Have you ever felt the shiver of a soul as it leaves the body?” the mesmer asked quietly. She stared at the rising moon. “Do you ever wonder if what you’re doing is right?”

Nettle blinked. “I have. No, I do not. Every action I take is performed with deliberation. You would be better served in finding your own sense of purpose.”

“What gives you the right to say such a thing? When were _you_ born?” Llumin’s eyes took on a steely glint, and her stance shifted. “You fought with us, but you sound almost like those Courtiers.”

“Do not sort me with them, sprout,” Nettle spat. “Though I do believe that some of the Grove’s policies are soft on wrongdoers, never believe that I would fall into Nightmare. They are blinded by hate and bitterness – and such blindness is catastrophic to maintaining your chosen path.” She sighed, fingers stroking the skull at her side. “I was born at Dawn. Why do you ask?”

Llumin shrugged and turned back to her sword. “You don’t seem to fit with any of the major Cycles. If anything, your personality fits the Night blooms more than Dawn.”

“Another lesson you will learn: People are often more complex than their titles may show.” Nettle gave Llumin a sidelong glance. “You’ve got an interesting aura. But something seems off.”

The mesmer gave her a suspicious look. “What does it matter to you?”

“It matters because there are dragons to fight and you will be required in that battle. For the sake of the world, you will need to be in top condition.”

Her breath stopped. Her mind immediately flashed to her Dream of the beast in the world before waking. Her Wyld Hunt.

“How did you know about my Hunt?” she whispered.

Nettle smiled. “I didn’t. I only know someone else who is called to slay the dragons. You were just a lucky guess.”

The tent flap snapped open. Elmfrond’s golden eyes were wide with worry.

“We need to go to the Grove. Sylfia is dying.”


	48. Arc 3, Chapter 17

 

They carried Tiachren’s bandaged and Sylfia’s shrouded forms carefully through the gates. Shortly after entering the city, she was whisked away by a small army of Menders. They carefully cradled the warrior in a bed of leaves and stepped cautiously onto a windborne elevator which whisked them into the upper city like a dandelion seed on the breeze.

“Where are they taking her?” Myrie asked as she watched the elevator bend in the wind and out of sight.

Selana had no answer. “Nettle?”

The necromancer’s eyes were narrowed, as if she could see through the thick, leafy ceiling above them. “They’re not headed to the usual place,” she murmured. Her brow furrowed. “The Pale Mother…”

“The Pale Mother what?” Elmfrond huffed impatiently.

“They’re taking her there.”

“Why would they do that? I thought most of the healers were on the lower floors!”

Nettle turned to him, her face grim. “They are.”

The group was silent for a while. It was Llumin who spoke first.

“They’re not sure she’ll survive long enough to reach them,” she whispered. Beside her, the prone form of Tiachren stirred. The two remaining Wardens who supported his pallet looked to Llumin for guidance. “Perhaps it is best if we ascend, as well. You have your companion to worry about, and I…” Concern etched itself across her features as the guardian’s mounting shock and grief began to show upon his own countenance. She turned back to Selana. “Tiachren may need counsel.”

A pang of sympathy echoed through the elementalist. She resisted the urge to tell Llumin why she had come. Instead she merely nodded, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“You fought well,” she said quietly. “Do not blame yourself for what you had to do.”

A confused look briefly flickered across the mesmer’s face. “Thank you,” she replied. “I fear more for _his_ sake, though,” she sighed.

“Would Her Highness mind if we went with you?” Myrie asked shyly.

Despite the atmosphere, Llumin gave a small smile. “I don’t think she would,” she answered. “And she much prefers being referred to as the Pale Tree or the Pale Mother. Come. We must be quiet, lest we disturb our friends.”

With that, the group made their way to the Pale Tree, guided by Wardens in the city and helpful citizens, and arose into the Pale Tree’s bower.

 

 

The aroma in the upper city was rich with life. Myrie recalled tracking centaurs in the higher mountains of Kryta where the rising ground brought with it the thin dryness of the ascendant air. Here, though, was a sharp contrast to that mountain breeze. The air was humid, yet not unpleasant, and a wet earthiness blended with the scents of wood and flowers to create the sense of being in an enormous, royal garden. The tingling smell of magic wove it, becoming almost unbearabl in the center of the bower, where a tall, graceful being stood.

  She appeared to be composed entirely of golden and cream-colored flowers, and her image shimmered slightly, as if from waves of heat or arcana.

“Welcome, my children.” She smiled, though her eyes were filled with concern.

“Mother Tree,” Llumin murmured. She, Tiachren, Nettle, and Elmfrond all knelt before the flowery woman. Selana curtseyed, and Myrie bowed her head. The Pale Tree raised a hand, motioning for them to stand.

“I see that this visit is not one of joy,” she said. “You bring with you many questions and concerns which weigh heavily upon your hearts.”

 She turned to Tiachren, who inclined his head once more.

 “My son,” she soothed, “know that you did all you could. Remember that the love you shared with Ysvelta was not evil, though some may attempt to twist it that way. Her true self resides in the Dream of Dreams, and will wait for you when your time comes. And do not blame Llumin for her actions, for the grief and guilt you would otherwise have borne would have only driven you down the path of destruction.”

He bowed, murmuring his thanks, and stepped back. “I will remember her as she was,” he sighed. “Thank you, Mother.”

“And you, Elmfrond.” The Pale Tree’s face shone with pride. “You who are so young have already faced the enemy with courage and bound fast to those who have aided you. Your kind heart and determined attitude will continue to be a boon to those around you. But,” she added, and Myrie was reminded of her own mother when she would catch her stealing cookies, “do not take that which is not yours. Use your skills to help others – not for your own amusement.”

Elmfrond gave a sheepish smile. “Yes, Mother Tree,” he said. He bowed before stepping away and walking to Selana’s side. The Pale Tree’s gaze found Nettle, who stared back at her calmly.

“I have done nothing wrong,” the necromancer stated.

“Do not be so arrogant as to believe those words, sapling.” The Pale Tree’s voice took on a hard tone, and Myrie flinched at its change. “Though you may have brought justice to some, at what cost has your curiosity landed upon others? Do you even consider letting the law deal with their own criminals, or do you insist upon being some vigilante?”

Nettle’s eyes flashed. She bowed her head, yet did not break eye contact with the Pale Tree. “I would do everything I have done a thousand times again if it meant that one less scourge roamed the face of this world. Aren’t you the one who tells us to follow the teachings of Ventari’s Tablet? ‘Act with wisdom, but act.’ Too many sit idly. I have made my choice, Mother; though I do not ask for your approval, I only ask for your understanding. If I cannot have that, then I must request that you simply let me be.” With that, she briskly turned and stalked back towards Selana and Myrie. The thief, for her part, scooted slightly further from her when she returned to their side.

The Pale Tree looked for a moment as though she was about to say something further to Nettle, but her mouth closed, and she shook her head in frustration. She sighed and returned her gaze to Llumin, now the only one left in her space.

“My child,” she said, and the smile upon her face was bittersweet, “your path is not an easy one. Though you have only started it, what is not shrouded in the mists of uncertainty speaks of many trials. I cannot tell you much of it, but I can tell you that there will be great joy and deep sorrow intertwined in your life. Already you have felt one of the smaller pains. Know this; the darkest night is right before the dawn. Stay strong; your Wyld Hunt will not be taken alone.”

“Then who will it be with, Mother?” Llumin pled. “I know Tiachren must stay at the Grove, but with whom will I travel?”

The Tree was silent. “I know of only one other child of mine who has dreamed of the Dragon. Caithe may be difficult to bring out of isolation. However, if you are to strike at Zhaitan, the master of the Risen, then you will need someone who knows the land and how its minions behave. But for now, you should rest. Your mind and body are already tired from this journey, and much can wait for a later day.” At this, the Pale Tree’s eyes sought the bound, listless form of Sylfia. A slight gasp escaped her full lips.

“My daughter,” she whispered. She closed her eyes, concentrating. “She still lives, though the Dream calls to her.”

“Oh, thank heavens. I thought that she had…” Myrie’s voice was oddly strangled. She cleared her throat. “Well, at least that besotted salad’s stubborn enough to cling to life, eh?”

“There is still a strong possibility that over the course of her healing, she may die. Do not lose hope, but be cautious against celebration.” The Pale Tree motioned to some of her Wardens, and they sprinted over to her, carefully unwinding the bandages that cocooned Sylfia’s body. A hiss escaped the warrior’s teeth, and a green glint of her eye flickered hazily in the dreamy light.

“Wotch it with that tearing, would ya?” she rasped. Her voice was softer than normal.

“Be still and do not speak, child,” the Pale Tree ordered firmly. “You have a long journey towards recovery, and you will need all of your energy to heal.”

“Don’t wanna stay still…wanna pulp the blighted thorn-root who did this to me.” She tried sitting up, but with a sharp cry of pain, she gave up the endeavor. A frustrated, pained moan leaked from her mouth, and she spat out a gobbet of golden blood. “ _Somebody_ tell me they got ‘im… or the next thing I’ll do is give _all_ of your ‘eads a good thrashing.”

Selana gave a low laugh. “There’s no need to worry about that, Sylfia. I can personally assure you that Renvari is dead.”

“Hmmmm.” The warrior’s eye closed alongside its twin. “Good.”

“Now I must insist that you let Sylfia be. She’ll be cared for well up here, and being so close to myself should heal her more rapidly than below,” the Pale Tree said. A seed-elevator rose to the bower, and its leafy hatch opened. “Rest, recover, and prepare,” she continued. “I sense there will be much to discuss in the near future.”

 

They had all been guided to the living complex, where Nettle, Elmfrond, and Llumin found their respective quarters and allowed their guests to stay with them. When they woke up the next day, a Warden arrived with a letter from the Pale Tree stating that Sylfia had survived through the night and that her wounds had stopped oozing.

“She’s still in nowhere near fighting shape,” the letter detailed, “but rest assured that the healers are doing what they can. Try to enjoy yourselves; there may not be much opportunity later. If you need directions and advice for some of the city’s places of interest, feel free to ask any of my children for their recommendations. However, I would not endorse whatever places Nettle frequents – though I’m sure it’s understandable to all of you the reasons why.” She finished with a farewell and more well-wishes. As the courier left, a carrier pigeon flew through a nearby window and landed on Myrie’s extended finger. A scroll had been bound to its leg that she unrolled and began to read, letting the bird rest on the windowsill.

“You have a letter?” Elmfrond asked. “Who is it from?”

“It is addressed to me, but gives consideration to Selana, Nettle, and Sylfia as well.” The thief’s eyes scrolled down the unrolled parchment. “It’s from Gryphon Radwing!”

Selana stood by Myrie’s side, but did not peek over her shoulder. “What does he say?”

“He says there’s a contact he would like us to meet. She’s in the Durmand Priory, but we may need to stop at the Black Citadel first to get some supplies.”

“The Grove has supplies,” Elmfrond pointed out.

“Yes, but he also claims that there’s another member of the Knights of Gryphon who might be able to provide some assistance. She has a hair-trigger temper, though.” Myrie sighed. “At times like these, it would really be useful to have Sylfia to provide some extra muscle. Maybe she would know how to deal with someone like that.”

“She has improved in her disposition,” Selana reminded her.

“Yeah, but the charr culture is significantly more war-like than either the sylvari or human races’. Of all our members, she would be the best in this situation. Not that I’m doubting any of our fighting capabilities,” she amended.

Llumin had remained quiet, watching the others as they chatted excitedly. A strange, unsettling feeling had oozed into her heart, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t quite get rid of it. She stood from her corner in the room and walked toward them.

“You may all go without me,” she said. Her brow furrowed. “I still believe I will need to prepare for my Wyld Hunt. I might try meeting up with you later, but for now, I will visit the archives and see if there is any information on Orr or the Dragons.”

“I understand,” Selana replied, smiling soothingly. “The library in Divinity’s Reach has a large assortment of books; feel free to read them if you travel to the city.”

An odd sense of familiarity briefly flashed through Llumin’s mind. Shaking her head slightly to dispel it, the sylvari bowed her head in acknowledgement. “I will keep that in mind,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Keep in touch,” Elmfrond said, shaking her hand. “And don’t worry; some are more accustomed to battle than others. You’ll calm more easily.”

“Never lose that fear of killing, Llumin,” Selana continued quietly. “It is rare to find someone willing to spare the lives of their enemies when bloodshed is no longer required.”

The mesmer realized she had been holding her breath. She inhaled quietly and sighed, a smile returning to her face. “Thank you. Best of luck in your travels.”


	49. Arc 3, Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party travels to the Black Citadel, where Nettle's past causes trouble for them.

 

The party traveled through the gates of the Black Citadel with little concern. Though the lion-like guards only earned Elmfrond’s curious stare, to Myrie and Selana, they instilled an ancient wariness.

Humans and charr had only recently been undergoing peace treaties, and the contested city of Ascalon, once a glorious kingdom and now a blasted and haunted husk, was the main negotiation point. Selana kept her eyes focused straight ahead and shifted her jaw forward, determining to keep in mind that the city was practically destroyed; ancestral ties aside, it would be a small loss to Kryta should the charr gain control of that city. On the other hand, Myrie grit her teeth, anger simmering at the race which insisted that the ancient territory, homeland of such legends as Prince Rurik and Mhenlo the healer, was to be their prize. The thick smells of machine oil and hot steel assaulted their noses. It was a harsh change from the lush, green scent of the Grove. Nettle seemed to know her way around the city, despite the confusion of the loud, bustling atmosphere.

“The supply market is this way,” she said, walking briskly past a merchant. “And the contact has reached out to me before. Our usual meeting place is in the Serrated Knife, a tavern which isn’t much further than the market square. I’ll show you the way.” When her companions hesitated, she sighed, rolling her eyes heavenward. “If you doubt me so much, feel free to consult the map. You will undoubtedly get lost in the city’s spirals, though; without a guide, it is deceptively difficult to navigate.”

“I never said we weren’t following you,” Selana replied frostily. “Though you will excuse our hesitation at your familiarity. What has given you such intimate knowledge of the city’s layabout?”

Nettle smiled prettily. “What else? Business as usual.”

The necromancer guided them through the spiraling machinery of the city, stepping deftly over interlocking stairs formed from gears and under arching bridges whose steel was polished from thousands of steps striding across them. The smells of the city mixed with other scents in the marketplace. Roasted meats turned on spits next to enormous barrels of ales and wines, while a little further down the square, leatherworkers punched holes in hides, threading thick twine through and forming intricate polished armors. Shouts mingled with the tolling of the anvil as armorsmiths worked alongside weaponsmiths, arguing over whose materials belonged to whom and by the way, that was their metal, thank you very much. Myrie had gleefully purchased an entire cow haunch and carried it unsteadily with both hands, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“What are you thinking now?” Selana arched an eyebrow suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing much,” Myrie replied, still smiling. After a moment, she gave a giggle. “I could nail someone over the head with this thing!”

“Please don’t.”

“What, you don’t think I can do it?”

Selana gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m not saying it’s impossible; I am, however, suggesting against it if only for the sake of national diplomacy.”

Myrie frowned and took a bite of the meat. “Wow, this is good,” she remarked, eyes widening. She took another chomp of the enormous meal. “I could probably feast for days on this thing.”

“Well, please keep in mind that we are meeting with one of Gryphon’s contacts.” A smile flashed across the ivory elementalist’s face. “And you don’t look terribly professional with beef juice dribbling down your chin.”

Myrie desperately rubbed at the offending spot.

“If you’d like, I could just use the air to blow it away,” Selana offered.

“No thanks. I know how strong your breezes can be, and I’d prefer to remain anchored to the ground.”

Nettle interrupted Elmfrond’s wide-eyed observations and the humans’ banter to inform them that they had arrived. The tang of blood and iron assaulted their noses, and the taste of Myrie’s meat soured on her tongue.

“I don’t think I can finish this,” she said queasily. She handed her remaining meat to a charr cub. The child looked up at her, flashed a wide grin, and proceeded to dash off and whack one of his companions with the enormous haunch. Myrie gave a proud smile. Elmfrond passed a flask to her.

“Sylfia said that we could keep it handy if required,” he explained. “She said we might need it to brace ourselves.”

Myrie thanked him and tipped it upwards, coughing at the burning fluid that scorched down her throat. Nettle had seen the ordeal and promptly snatched the container from her hands.

“That was my medicinal brandy,” she explained stiffly. Her eyes latched onto one of the bar’s patrons. “Ah, there’s our contact.”

A black-furred charr with gears in her horns looked up at them. Recognition flashed across her face, and she bared her teeth. She stood and stalked over to the group, towering over Nettle.

“You,” she growled, “have some explaining to do.”

 

The charr’s name was Khadr Shadowstalker. Apparently, she and Nettle were not on the best of terms at the moment, though for what reason, Myrie didn’t quite catch. While the two were arguing, her eyes caught movement in the corner of the bar. A male charr, smaller in stature yet broader across than Khadr, had nudged his companion and pointed at the necromancer. In the dim light of the flickering lanterns, their eyes seemed sinister. With no warning, the first male reached down, broke a leg off a nearby stool, and threw it at the sylvari’s head. Khadr’s ears twitched. She let out a roar and whirled around, batting the furniture away just in time to avert a collision.

Her fangs were bared, and she stalked over the corner, hackles rising. “Who threw that chair?”

The tawny-furred male stood and gave a challenging snarl. “I did, Legionarre. That sylvari has come here before and insulted my honor and position. She did not show the proper respect due a gate guard, and she threatened me. As a member of the city’s defenses, I and my companions can personally attest to the fact that that walking salad is a threat to the Citadel.” He drew a longsword from its scabbard and pointed it at Nettle. “Permission for trial by combat, ma’am,” he growled. Myrie flinched. Something about him didn’t seem quite right.

Khadr’s golden eyes narrowed to slits, and her ears laid flat against her skull. After a long few seconds, a slow, cold smile spread across her muzzle.

“Very well. Permission granted. If you win,” she growled, speaking just loudly for Myrie to hear, “then consider our debts repaid. Should you lose…” Her claws scraped against the barrel of her rifle. “No matter what Gryphon will say, you shall not gain my aid.”

Selana and Elmfrond were stunned into silence. Myrie shot the necromancer an alarmed look. Nettle, for her part, seemed disturbingly calm.

“Excellent. I _have_ been craving a battle lately.” She licked her lips. The guard’s assured pose faltered. Khadr gave a guttural growl.

“No more lollygagging. To the Bane!”

Before Myrie had much chance to process what had just transpired, she and the others were mustered out of the tavern and to an elevator. Khadr nodded at its operator, and with a salute, the charr operating the machine tugged on the chain, letting the group rattle down to the arena.

“May the most worthy win,” the charr chuckled darkly. “Don’t stop until one of you is dead.”


	50. Arc 3, Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin's studies bring her into contact with the Firstborn, Trahearne.

  
Meanwhile in the Grove, Llumin found herself buried between ancient texts and scrolls. She had gathered a veritable fort of knowledge, and the delicious scent of ancient paper mixed with the lush smells of her home. In her little castle of papers, the sylvari’s willowy hair was like a gem of purplish-black in the parchment’s golden-cream center. Despite the pleasantries of her surroundings, Llumin’s lips were pursed in frustration. She finished skimming her current article and closed it, giving a low groan as she put her head in her hands. From what she had seen, legends of the Elder Dragons went back for millennia. Even two and a half centuries ago, Primordus, the Elder Dragon of Fire, had stirred. Though it hadn’t fully risen, it had awoken a champion, the Great Destroyer. The power of that champion was so great that it required the sacrifice of the entire Dwarven race to stop it from ravaging Tyria. Even then, the result was inconsequential; the dragon did not cease to wake, though the defeat of its second-in-command had stalled it. If the lieutenants of the dragons were that powerful, she thought, how much of a chance could they possibly have against the beasts themselves? At Kralkatorrik’s rise, the Diessa Plateu in Ascalon had transformed into a scarred, crystalline landscape. Jormag’s ascension brought with it the unthinkable cold that had driven even the hardy norn from their homeland in the Far Shiverpeaks in the north. And Zhaitan, the dragon her Wyld Hunt called her to kill, had resurrected an entire sunken kingdom and even now turned the corpses of human, norn, charr, and asura to its service.

 

“This is impossible,” she muttered dejectedly.

  
“Oh?” A deep, melodic voice, one she had never heard before, gave a dry chuckle. “I’m sure your task can’t be much harder than mine.”

  
Llumin raised her head from the desk, eyebrows arched in confusion. “Hello?” She peered around a teetering stack of parchments, trying to find its source. On the other side of her self-made fort was another sylvari. He had dark green skin and hair. His yellow eyes shone with cynical amusement. For some reason, she felt rather self-conscious under his gaze, and combined with her daunting task and exhaustion from her studies, the slurry of emotions solidified into irritation.  
“Excuse me,” she said. “It’s rather rude to interrupt someone’s reading.”

  
“It didn’t sound like you were reading.”

  
“I had been! And it was very important, world-changing, daunting…. impossible reading.” She gave a sigh before laughing apologetically. “I’m sorry; you probably don’t want to listen to the babblings of a sprout like me.” She watched his face for a reaction, but instead of replying, the other sylvari reached for a book in her pile and removed it, eyes flicking across its title.

  
“I remember this one. It’s an excellent read on Orrian history and the legends of Vizier Khilbron. However,” he gave a smile and put it back, reaching next to him and handing her another book which was bound thickly in tattered leather, “if you’re trying to figure out something about Zhaitan, I recommend this. It’s a tome on dragon myths in ancient cultures,” he explained, watching as she turned the book over in her hands.

Unable to resist the lure of information, Llumin cracked it open and began devouring the text. After several pages, she forced herself out of the book and returned her gaze to the sylvari in front of her. Her face was wide with wonder.  
“How did you know which book I would need?”

  
“Let’s just say I’ve had some time and experience with the lay of Orr’s land. Although I must say, you have quite a larger selection than I did when I first began studying that accursed place.”

  
A distant echo of recognition pinged in Llumin’s head. “Wait, you aren’t possibly…?”

  
He arched an eyebrow questioningly. “Yes?”

  
Dread and embarrassment flushed her face. She quickly stood and bowed. “It’s an honor to meet you, Firstborn. I apologize; I should have realized who you were sooner, and I shouldn’t have snapped. It was –”

  
“ – It was understandable.” He sighed, gently thumbing through the pages of another script. He looked back at her, a look of discomfort on his face. “Please sit down. And call me Trahearne. I really don’t understand the veneration you younger generations hold for us Firstborn. We’re not that different from you.”

  
“But you’ve been around for so long! You know so much and have seen a great many things. If only for your wisdom alone, you deserve our respect.”

  
He gave a dry chuckle. “I wouldn’t be so sure about our so-called wisdom. We’ve all made some fairly idiotic decisions.”

  
Recovering her composure, Llumin sat down again. She wasn’t quite sure if or how to continue the conversation. Fortunately, she didn’t need to worry.

  
“In case you were wondering why I think our tasks may be on par, you will need to know my Wyld Hunt.”

  
“Your task is to cleanse Orr,” she said softly. He was taken aback.

  
“Yes. How did you know?”

  
“The Blessed Mother told me that there was only one who had dreamed of Orr’s restoration. Naturally, since you seemed to already know a great deal about the place, I concluded that you were the only possible one to whom she referred.”

  
“Well done.” He smiled again before continuing to browse the selection of books, scrolls, and other texts. Llumin watched him curiously.

  
“It’s impossible to do such a thing alone,” she said slowly. “To cleanse the land, the dragon would need to be defeated. For the dragon to be beaten, we’d need an army. That army would need a tactician.”

  
Trahearne closed his book with a snap and glanced over at her. “Then you may need to look elsewhere. I am no warrior,” he replied quietly.

  
“But Tyria would need one. Perhaps –”

  
He stood. “I am a scholar. Although I am a necromancer, I am no fighter. I have never been in a true battle, and I am horrible with speeches. If you think that I should get the position just because of my studies and place as a Firstborn, then your reasoning is flawed. It’s as likely that the Pale Mother would give me a weapon with the ability to perform the task as I would become a leader of any sorts. Although you flatter me, do not deceive yourself.” His smile was apologetic yet distant. “Perhaps you will find someone who can aid you, but for now, my only help will be with the finding of relevant material.”

  
Llumin felt her heart sink. “If you’re not the one the Mother was speaking of, then who is?”

  
He shook his head. “I do not know. And now I must bid you farewell; I leave to study the outer edge of Orr in a few days, and I have to finish preparing for my journey.” As he turned to exit the library, he paused. “I never did get your name,” he said.

 

“Llumin, sir.”

  
A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Llumin. Perhaps someday we will see each other again.”

 

  
When he left, the library seemed somehow emptier than before. She scowled at a crude grawl painting and turned it over, studying the explanation. “He cannot run from his destiny forever,” she sighed, tracing over an elaborate letter. “I only hope he will have the confidence to do it when the time comes."


	51. Arc 3, Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nettle fights in the Bane, and Selana makes a discovery.

 

The floor of the Bane was covered in sand which looked as though it had recently been replaced. Below the fine grains of the newest cover lingered the unmistakable rusty color of dried blood. The charr in front of Nettle took her fascination with the substance for unease and gave a low, rumbling laugh.

“So, still thinking this was a good idea, leaf?”

Nettle still stared at the sand and then knelt. She traced a thin, pale finger through it. Some of the stained sand clung to her finger.

“What are you waiting for?” the guard snarled; he drew his sword and stalked towards her. “Calling to your mother?”

The necromancer calmly raised her finger to her eye level, squinting at it. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” she finally spoke. She turned her wrist, letting the red ochre-colored mineral glitter in the flickering torchlight. “Such an unnoticed substance, blood. There’s quite a bit of it flowing through every one of us, pulsing with its own song, its own life. Yet for all its uses and abilities, it’s only really noticed when let free to spatter onto the ground. It’s most-missed when it is absent from the body, when every vein has been drained of that precious fluid which somehow empowers its host. This sand has seen it.” She stood, head tilted and a small smile across her lovely features. The grains on her fingers flickered once more, and the red on them moved slowly, painstakingly away from their tiny hosts until they floated in the air like little flecks of ruby. The guard’s eyes widened, but he shook his head and growled again.

“If you think your stinking tricks will worry me, than you are wrong, you petal-headed lettuce.”

“Oh, I’m not trying to intimidate you, silly house-cat.” Her gaze returned to him, but it was cold and distant, as if she was looking through him, or just past his shoulder. “If you fear what you do not know,” she continued, and the dried blood-flecks began to whirl together, “than there is no doubt as to the result of our combat. Of course,” she beamed, “if you had any sense of who I am, than you would never have started this fight in the first place.”

The hackles on the guard’s back rose – though from fear or anger, he couldn’t say. With a final roar, he bounded toward the sylvari, blade drawn, teeth bared, and claws extended. Nettle’s smile seemed to freeze in place, and as the snarling warrior barreled down on her, she stepped to the side and flicked the blood-chip outward. It grazed off his nose – not enough to pierce the deeper layers of tissue, but just deep enough to tear off the fur covering it and expose the shiny, pink flesh beneath. He gave a yowl of pain and spun around, dust flinging in the air at his sudden turn.

“Quit your teasing and fight me, miserable wench!” he bellowed, clashing his sword against his chestplate and stalking forward once more. His tail lashed the floor.

Nettle gave a mocking hum, prancing away with mincing steps. “Perhaps I shall, if you can reach me,” she sang lightly. She gave an icy, silvery laugh as the charr thrust his blade at her side. “Go on. Try it again,” she smirked. Once more the sword cleft the air, and at the moment its blade left the charr’s side, Nettle’s fingers rolled, exposing a dagger she had hidden in her sleeve.

 

From up in the Bane’s viewing chamber, Selana’s back stiffened. She had seen knife-wielding skills like that once before, when she had met with representatives from the oldest-running Order in Tyria back in Divinity’s Reach.

“Myrie,” the elementalist whispered, “I believe that Nettle may be a member of the Order of Whispers.”


	52. Arc 3, Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gryphon's letters from Myrie and Nettle arrive; Nettle's fight in the Bane begins in earnest.

  
Divinity’s Reach, Kingdom of Kryta, Tyria.

  
The lamp-light in Gryphon Radwing’s master bedroom flickered dull yet steady, its orange heartbeat of a flame reminiscent of the young woman who he had seen off only so long ago. Selana Firestone has grown, he thought, smiling absently as his quill tapped on a roll of cream-colored parchment. The once-insecure woman who feared love for the sake of its absence had begun to open herself up, learning how to befriend others and protect those who could not defend themselves. So, too, had the suspicious Myrie Ward matured, becoming one who learned to move past her comfort zone and towards the betterment of those who didn’t even know her. It no longer mattered if they were peasant or noble; to the thief, all were now viewed as equal. Even her nerves seemed to settle; he hadn’t heard any tales of sudden yet valuable jewel-losses from when he had seen her last. On occasion, she even sent him rings and amulets of her own making.

  
“We’re leaving the Grove tomorrow,” Myrie’s most recent letter stated; it had been dated a few days ago. “Sylfia’s been badly burned, and we’re not sure how she’ll do. The Wardens say she’s been making a recovery, but it’s slow and uncertain. Llumin is staying behind as well – something about needing some time to study for her Wyld Hunt, whatever that is – but we’ve hired another new thief. He’s named Elmfrond – another sylvari – and he’s very curious. It’s odd; he’s kind of childish, but there are times when he’s freakishly wise. I only hope the poor soul retains his sanity; he’s rather outnumbered!”

  
Gryphon chuckled and leaned back in his chair. His smile slowly melted as the parchment next to Myrie’s stared up at him. Contrary to Myrie’s firm yet spidery handwriting, the script on the other letter was very neat, leaving little time for the looping frills which the thief was so fond of adding.

  
“Lightbringer Radwing,” it began, “I have little doubt that my companions will one day find out that our meeting was not a coincidence and will logically trace my connection with you back to the Order of Whispers. You knew that this was a risk that was likely to occur – after all, you stated yourself how these people were quite intelligent – but I am uncertain as to how the Master of Whispers will react. I know that our Order’s existence is nowhere near as secret as it had once been – something which makes even my young lips curl with distaste – but even so, I am uneasy with letting such a number know of our involvement. I’ve worked for far too long building up what little trust they have to simply have them believe that my sole purpose was to deceive. Irritating as it is to admit, for some unforeseen reason, I believe I have come to care for this group of mostly-humans. Though they are, as a general rule, barbaric, stupid, and clumsy, their loyalty and devotion to one another leaves me impressed. Selana still practically oozes magic; it’s no wonder the Master has taken such a keen interest in her. I will try persuading her to join us. Myrie may, contrary to our initial impressions, be more likely to join the Vigil instead of our lot. Unlike most thieves, she seems to prefer fighting in the open. This could be due to her odd sense of ‘honor’; if Sylfia does recover, I’m sure she’ll never let me hear the end of how her Order managed to lure her to their side instead of the ancient and awe-worthy Whispers. Elmfrond, our newest recruit, seems to have potential to go in any direction; despite his seeming-innocence, he is much more cunning than he gives credit. I will study him later.  
“And now we move on to our current subject. Llumin is a mesmer – though I am sure you already knew that – but she does not seem to have quite the same confidence or mannerisms as her estranged sister. From what I have heard, her curiosity is fitting to a member of the Dusk blooms, but she has a tendency to bury herself in textbooks and scrolls far more often than others of similar temperament. Adam says that this may be due to the fact that her core soul is human, yet much of it has been altered to the point where it has become a strange fusion between her birth race and that of sylvari. I believe that she has some form of internal conflict due to this discrepancy. Though her body is sylvari, which grants her immunity from the dragon’s corruption, her mind has not at its deepest levels accepted her new form. Furthermore, she appears to be uneasy whenever she is around Selana. It is as if she somehow views her as a source of pain and is attempting to avoid her. I will later test my hypothesis – and hope that Selana’s spectral parents are looking towards their human daughter instead of their reborn child. I will send you the results in the next several days.”

  
Gryphon’s temples throbbed as he flipped the page over. Myrie’s letter had been much more welcome, but Nettle’s spoke more directly of concerns and plans. Despite its necessity, Gryphon wished that the news from the necromancer was less-dire and more carefree. Though he disagreed with her methods – the Master of Whispers frequently employed her as an inquisitor or assassin instead of assigning her to spy and report – he had to admit that her work was, as it had always been, exemplary. He turned the page over and finished reading. Nettle had ended her letter by stating that she awaited further instructions and that she believed their stay in the Black Citadel wouldn’t take terribly long.

  
With a sigh, the red-haired mesmer steepled his hands, resting his elbows on his desk and propping his forehead against his fingers. He sent up a prayer to the gods.

“Keep them safe,” he whispered, brow furrowed. “And may Selana and Llumin resolve their differences peacefully.”

 

  
Nettle’s dagger hissed by the charr’s nose again, catching and slicing into the sensitive tip. With two injuries and an increasingly-wounded sense of pride, the warrior’s resulting howl was more one of rage than of agony. Acting instinctively, the leonine warrior lashed out with his claws extended, swiping at her trailing arm. Nettle’s face contorted in pain as five lines of flesh were torn from her. She quickly pulled the injured limb toward her and growled at the burning sensation which coursed through her body. Despite the wound, she laughed as she regained her footing.

“Good! You’re relying more on your bestial side like the ancient cats you used to be. Excellent!” Her smile had returned, and a frenzied light shone in her eyes, matching the wild look of her opponent.

From up in the audience, the hairs on Myrie’s neck stood up. In the presence of so much tension, she couldn’t help but feel as though she was their prey.

“Do not dare call me a beast, you arrogant sapling,” the charr roared. He stowed his weapon and rushed forward on all fours towards her. Nettle tilted her head, letting a low laugh escape her lips.

“But you play the part so very well.” She switched to her staff and she ran around the warrior’s charge, casting necromantic marks on the ground. Unable to stop his movement in time, the charr’s eyes widened in terror as he rapidly backpedaled. The magic on the marks activated, snapping into him with jaws of pestilence, plague, and chills. His movements slowed, yet he was undaunted.

Nettle felt a tinge of admiration rising in her chest.

“You must have been a truly remarkable warrior once,” she panted, still carefully holding her wounded arm. “What is it that caused such great dishonor as being cast out as a gladium?” Her hands once more gripped the ancient skull of Adam and her gleaming dagger.

The charr’s eyes were glazed with pain and fury. When the skull’s eyes began to glow, she saw something else flash across his face.

  
  “Ah,” she said slowly, grim satisfaction spreading across her features. “It was cowardice, wasn’t it?” Her teeth were bared in a grin that mirrored that of the skull. Maintaining eye contact with the semi-feral charr, she slowly raised her arm to her lips and licked the blood away. Though his face was covered with fur, she knew – she sensed — that he had paled.  “Like I said,” she smiled, golden sap staining her teeth, “it’s quite sad how much blood is taken for granted.”

She drew her knife across her skin, binding her force to his and tethering him in place.

Immobilized and with the bloodstained sylvari rushing toward him, the charr writhed where he stood, lashing out and yowling at the magic that bound him.

  
“Okay, okay, I give! Let me go!” he howled, baring his teeth and struggling against the bonds which pulsed with a mix of red and gold.

  
“You shall have your release soon enough, charr,” she spat. She twirled her blade in her hand as she continued her path. Slowing down to a calm walk, she paused in front of his face as he strained against the bond which held him in place. She tilted her head at him.  “Those bonds are ones of blood,” she said calmly. She raised the dagger and pressed its tip below his right eye. Giving a thoughtful hum, she traced the fine point down his cheekbone and to the thick, pulsing jugular that throbbed beneath his neck. Her gaze once more found his, and her lips curved into a smile. “I’ve always been curious – what does charr blood taste like?”

“Please, don’t,” he whimpered through gritted teeth. “You’ve made your point. I was wrong to insult you.”

“And?”

“And falsely accuse you of being a danger to the city! The only danger you were was to myself and my pride.”

Nettle nodded, seemingly-pleased. “As you should be.” The dagger’s point tapped lightly against the vein. “However, it is not enough.” Twisting her wrist, the necromancer lashed through the skin and sliced the vein open.

The charr’s face briefly was one of shock before it went suddenly slack. He toppled to the sand like a felled tree, and a stream of red flowed from his neck.  Bending down to his cooling corpse, Nettle Viridia traced a delicate finger through the liquid and raised it to her lips.

“Slightly piney with a hint of steak,” she smacked, licking the rest off  her knuckle. “But not bad.”

 

From up in the audience chamber, a roar of applause, threats, and surprise arose. Selana arched an eyebrow at Khadr, who had crossed her arms, tail lashing the floor in frustration.

“You made a promise,” she said coolly.

“And I will keep it,” the charr huffed, glowering in disgust at the gladium’s body. “Gather your friend and I will give you the parts you need.”

From off to Selana’s side, Myrie’s only acknowledgement of the fight was a retching sound. Elmfrond looked at the elementalist with concern. “You may want to request a paper bag – Myrie has just lost her lunch.”


	53. Arc 3, Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Traveling Circus meet the asura, Khimma and Klixx. Nettle leaves them at Hoelbrak to accomplish a mission of her own.

They passed through Lion’s Arch before taking a turn towards the Shiverpeaks, home of the giant, shapeshifting norn. Myrie shivered as the balmy air of the seaside city gave way to the frozen winds and snowy gusts of Hoelbrak, where most of the giant race made their home. Though she had heard of their penchant for large architecture, Myrie still failed to suppress a gasp at the buildings which dwarfed even Selana’s high frame.

“If you haven’t seen a norn in person,” Selana said, “then allow me to tell you this; they average around a height of nine feet. I’m practically a midget compared to them.”

“I’ve seen some around Divinity’s Reach before,” Myrie replied, shivering and drawing her mask over her mouth and nose. “They seem kind of obnoxious and loud. I’ll bet they’re awful in stealth missions.”

“Not always,” Nettle replied, shouldering her now-full pack. “I can assure you that despite their size, most norn are deceptively aware of their surroundings. Hunting is a large part of their culture.”

“And what are some of their other cultural habits?” Elmfrond asked. He grunted as he shifted his bulging backpack to his right shoulder.

Selana’s smile was bittersweet. “Drinking. Sylfia would be livid if she knew we were passing through and didn’t buy her any ale.”

“Well, maybe we should pick something up for her,” Myrie suggested. She walked over towards a stall. Selana put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

“Later,” she said, shaking her head. “Right now, we need to head to the Priory. Gryphon said that there were at least one or two people there who would be useful to our mission.”

“Who?”

“The first is a norn ranger by the name of Lyca Whitestorm. She’s a follower of Wolf, so she should be willing to work with others.”

Myrie’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Wolf? She follows a big dog?”

Selana sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “In norn culture, there are four main spirits they believe give them prowess or blessings in combat and other aspects of life. Known as the Spirits of the Wild, the most-known aspects are Bear, who is viewed as the strongest and heartiest; Wolf, who is loyal and fierce; and Raven, the cunning trickster. The Spirit that has only recently come to humanity’s attention is Snow Leopard, whose talents with stealth and silent tracking helped when the norn had to flee from the Northern Shiverpeaks when they were attacked by the Elder Dragon of Frost, Jormag.”

“Too much history lesson, not enough moving!” Myrie declared, holding up her hands and marching toward the city’s center.

“You don’t even know where we’re going!” Elmfrond laughed.

“I’ll figure it out,” she said confidently.

“Myrie, one of these days you’re going to thank me for all of my ‘lessons,’” Selana sighed, striding alongside her. “And you’re going to want to turn _left.”_

A sudden yelp from by their feet caused the group to stop.

“Watch your big, galumphing feet!”

“What was that?” Elmfrond leapt back, glancing down at the ground in shock. Two figures, roughly the same stature as human toddlers, glared back up at him. One of them had a small, twitching metal thing in its hand. Its long, shockingly-blue hair was pulled into a ponytail that stuck out over pointed, wedge-like ears. Its companion had brown hair pulled into a topknot. Both of them had large, wide eyes. The blue-haired one was snow-skinned with pink eyes, while the other was the color of light silt and possessed a golden-brown gaze.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said gently, kneeling down to reach their eye level. “Did I step on your toy? Maybe its – ”

 _“Toy?”_ the blue-haired creature shrieked, exposing a mouthful of sharp, shark-like teeth. Elmfrond leapt back in terror. Definitely not as cute as he had initially thought.

“You bookahs nearly stepped on my greatest invention, the SHU-TY golem! With this, tall folk such as yourself won’t need to bend such a great distance to tie your shoelaces! Consequently, it can be used as distraction in battle.”

“That little device is a death-trap,” the second creature groused, glowering at the tiny metal golem. “I’ve been trying to tell Khimma that her harebrained scheme of inventing housework golems of that size is completely ridiculous! Why use a small golem when you have bigger ones that can do so much more?”

“Oh, Klixx, you’re not still upset about its accident with your own shoes, are you?” the blue-haired asura smiled. “SHU-TY still has some quirks in its programming, I’ll give you that, but just wait. Its size and convenience will take the world by storm!”

The sylvari looked in confusion at Selana, who was stifling a laugh behind her hand.

“Elmfrond, you have just been introduced to the vertically-challenged genii of Tyria, the asura. And that thing she’s holding is a complex technomagical construct which their race mastered centuries ago.”

“Finally some decent respect!” Khimma sighed, smiling. She placed the golem in her tiny backpack and set her hands on her armored knees, pushing herself to a standing position. “As you’ve probably inferred from our conversation, I’m Khimma, and that is Statician Klixx. We’re both Statcians, really, but he prefers it to be an introductory point.”

“We work for the Durmand Priory, but we were on our way to scout for new materials for Khimma’s death machine.”

“Golem!” she snapped, not bothering to look back at him. “And it shouldn’t take too long; after this, we’re heading back to the Priory to study hylek physiology.”

“And you do that for fun?” Myrie’s nose wrinkled. “Hylek are slimy and their eyeballs weird me out.”

“Yet another uneducated bookah,” Klixx sighed dramatically.

Nettle took this time to whisper behind her hand that Elmfrond must have been too excited to have noticed the asura by the gates to recognize their species. He merely grinned sheepishly and nodded.

“What is it you need?” Selana asked, rummaging in her pack. “I might already have it.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Khimma huffed, glowering at her own bag. “After all, orichalcum ore is extremely-difficult to procure.”

“Well, then, consider this an apologetic gift for our rudeness,” the elementalist smiled, bending down and holding a coppery golden chunk of metal. The asura’s rose-colored eyes widened.

“Are you absolutely certain?” she whispered, though her tiny hands had already clasped the ingot.

“Keep it. I’m sure you’ll have more use for it. After all, I’m a tailor, not an armorsmith.”

“And I’m an armorsmith, not a tailor!” She grinned brightly. Myrie suppressed a shudder. Something about such a wide, pointed-teeth smile made her stomach crawl.

“Since you’ve been so helpful, how about we guide you to the Priory? I thought I heard one of you mention heading that way.” Klixx’s eyes crinkled in a smile.

“You’ve got pretty good hearing. And we would definitely appreciate a guide or two.”

“Well, then,” the asura stated, puffing out his tiny chest and grabbing a staff, “allow me to conjure some winds and speed us on our way! We’ll be there in no time.”

 

Nettle had declined the offer to travel to the Priory, stating that her only purpose in coming was to ensure that they didn’t get lost.

“Now that you have other guides,” she said, smiling, “you have no need of me.”

“You’re an excellent fighter; we will sorely miss your skills,” Selana replied.

“Don’t worry,” the necromancer laughed. “I plan on returning. Granted, I do not know when, but I promise that I will be back sometime soon.” She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “By the way, where are your parents’ spectres?”

Selana arched an eyebrow curiously. “I wouldn’t know. They said they’d be guarding me and my sister, but I don’t have the ability to sense them. Why?”

“No reason.” Nettle straightened, her lips curving upwards. The elementalist gave her a suspicious look but said nothing further.

“Well, don’t do anything _too_ weird while we’re gone, will you?” Myrie’s smile was uneasy. Nettle’s returning gaze was not reassuring. “Stay safe, humans. Elmfrond, do take time to write. And Klixx, Khimma?”

The asura paused in their bouncing jog to glance back up at her pale face. “Yes?” Klixx asked, trying vainly to keep his tone even.

“If you fail to transport my companions to the Durmand Priory, I don’t care how much knowledge you have stored in that musty library. I will find you and I will exsanguinate every drop of blood from your diminutive frames.”

“There’s no need for threats,” Elfmrond interjected, crossing his arms. Khimma’s armor clanked as she skidded to a halt and spun around, marching back toward the necromancer defiantly. Reaching to her tiptoes, the asura lifted a finger and pointed towards the sylvari’s inclined face.

“We are Novices of the Priory. Our specialty is knowledge and our threats are dragons. The last thing we intend to do is get any possible allies lost in the snow.” Despite her tiny frame, the asura’s stance exuded power, and the hammer she slung over her back looked deceptively-heavy. Nettle couldn’t help but laugh, straightening as she did so.

“Of course. Travel quickly.” Her robes whispered on the snow as her feet crunched away, leading her back towards the gates of Lion’s Arch.

Myrie sighed. “Why is it that whenever we gain new members, we always end up losing at least one or two others?”

Selana shrugged. “We should be grateful for whom we have with us. I still have no doubt that we’ll encounter hostiles on our way to the Priory. Besides, it will lend our presence greater credibility if we have a couple of Magisters with us.”

Khimma’s pale ears flushed pink. “Although I understand the titular confusion, a Novice is at least a rank or two below Magister. I’m flattered, though; perhaps if you were to join us, you’d understand?”

Selana laughed. “Nice try, Khimma. But I will have to say I’m currently looking towards other Orders at the moment.”

The asura made a sour face, shrugged, and continued through the snow. It reached their waists, but was only knee-deep to most of the Traveling Circus.

“We should arrive there shortly,” Klixx shouted over the howling winds. “This journey should be as simple as introductory hexmancy!”


	54. Arc 3, Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group begins to travel to the Priory.

  
As it turned out, they were not the only ones travelling on or through the Shiverpeaks. The most irritating encounters they had were with the primitive grawl, a heavily-furred, bipedal apelike race which fiercely defended their lands from perceived intruders. A spear thudded behind Myrie’s back as she ducked its throw.

  
“I thought you were leading us on the path quickest to the Priory!” she accused, twisting and firing a pistol-ball between the grawl’s beady eyes.

“This is the fastest route!” Khimma huffed. Readying her hammer, she vaulted through the air and brought its head down, crushing the feet of a shaman who had summoned a frost wurm to attack them. Raising it again, the asura gave the shaman’s jaw a bone-pulping blow as the plated mandibles of the ice wurm let forth a shriek, which shriveled under a blast of earthen shards from Klixx’s scepter. 

“I didn’t anticipate being set upon by hairy, smelly, rock-worshipping monkey-men,” he shouted irately. “So don’t think we’re doing this just for grins. They weren’t on the path last time we came through here!”

“Well, they’ve obviously moved!” Myrie leapt back, firing a cluster bomb into the center of the gathering. Most of the grawl scattered at its explosion. The rest gave throaty hoots and garbled threats before turning and fleeing.

“I hope they weren’t running from something bigger,” Elmfrond panted, eyes darting around the snowy peaks. He sneezed. 

“You really ought to have dressed more warmly while we were in Hoelbrak,” Selana said.

“Says the woman who can generate fire.” Myrie rolled her eyes and pulled her scarf around her ears, leaving only her eyes visible. Selana gave her a sidelong glare and beckoned for the sylvari to step closer, holding out a glowing stone. 

“Put this in your belt pouch,” she instructed. “If you keep it too close to your skin, the stone’s heat will burn you. This should at least help.”

“But what about my pouch?”

“It won’t burn through it, but direct contact with the stone at this temperature will cause the heat to be unpleasant. The leather acts as a buffer; it won’t cause holes to scorch through it.”

Elmfrond thanked her heartily and slipped the hot stone into his hip-pouch, a blissful smile passing over his features.  
“Thanks,” he sighed, eyes half-closed in contentment. Selana smiled.

Khimma gave a low groan and pointed up the rocky trail.  
“We’ve got elementals ahead, and I have a feeling that we’re heading back into another tribe of grawl. I’m sorry to say that based on my calculations, we might be traveling for at least another two days.”

Klixx raised his blunt nose to the sky. “You might want to make that three. There’s a storm coming.”

“We should try to find shelter,” Myrie said. She trudged towards the mountains. “Or maybe we could find a norn town on the way to the Priory.”

“Why are you heading towards the mountains, then?” Elmfrond asked.

The other thief rolled her eyes. “Elmfrond, do you know what caves are?”

“Yes!” His eyes widened in understanding. “Oh,” he breathed. “Maybe there are some in the mountains!”

“Exactly.” Myrie and the sylvari jogged off. Khimma gave a yelp.

“What are you doing, you bookahs? This isn’t Kryta or some other tame area – jotun live in those caves!”

“Admittedly, not all of them, but still!” Klixx joined Khimma, and both asura raced after the thieves. Selana quickly followed, bending the frozen air to aid them. However, the thieves were significantly more nimble than their more lawful counterparts, and by the time the rest of the group caught up to them, they had already found and entered a crevasse in the mountain wall. The clearing was much larger than it had appeared on the outside, and much to the relief of all, there were no signs of jotun or grawl activity within. 

“No skeletons, either,” Khimma noted, crouching down to the ground and pulling out a piece of flint. “If anything or anyone has been here before, they got out alive.”

“Or maybe something ate their bones, too,” Myrie hummed absently, strolling around the cave’s interior perimeter. Selana gave her a warning look as Elmfrond gulped nervously.

“I’m sure it’s safe, Elmfrond,” the elementalist reassured him. “I’m not sensing any large tremors, so nothing’s stalking us.” 

A sudden gust of wind tore through the cave’s opening, chilling all within. Khimma quickly bent and reached into her pack, removing a thick leather tarp and placing it over the entrance. Klixx smoothly altered the rock, pulling small stone anchors from the mountain wall and securing the leather. Now effectively sealed in the chamber, the group huddled around a small fire Selana had made from gathered wood-scraps. The smoke was diverted under the tarp, and through that small gap, the wind’s howling grew fiercer still. Klixx created a pocket of clear air around his head and looked under the leather. 

“The blizzard is in full force now,” he sighed, slumping back onto the cave wall. “I don’t know how long it should take. It might pass in an hour; perhaps two. At its longest, we could be in here for a couple of days. Until then, we’ll have to reserve our rations and wait until the storm blows over before continuing to the Priory.” He gave a rueful smile – which still unnerved Myrie – and said sheepishly, “Well, I suppose introductory hexmancy _would_ be difficult for a non-asura…”


	55. Arc 3, Chapter 24

 “Are you awake?”

Llumin’s head rose from her desk with a flutter of scattering papers. Her wide blue eyes were bleary yet alert.

“Did I miss something? She stifled a yawn as her gaze met that of the sylvari in front of her. Recognition flickered in her mind. “Nettle Viridia, isn’t it?”

The pale woman in front of her nodded once. “Yes.” She walked toward the mountain of papers in which the mesmer had buried herself. “This isn’t exactly light reading, sapling,” she remarked, arching an eyebrow at her.

Llumin gave a sour frown. “Do you think that because I’m younger than you that I am less able to learn?” She turned back to her books and opened a thick, leather-bound tome. “We Dusk blooms _are_ curious, remember? What happened to that trip with the humans to the norn city, Hoelbrak?”

Nettle waved her hand dismissively. “It bored me. I’ve already traveled there, and they acquired new guides.” She resumed leafing through Llumin’s tower of papers. “Dragon corruption…effects of the Elder Dragons on local flora… Why are you reading these?”

Llumin drew back. “Isn’t it obvious? Did _you_ Dream of a dragon? Without the knowledge contained in these tomes, I won’t have any idea of how to defeat Zhaitan.”

Nettle looked at the mesmer as if she had grown an extra head. “You can’t possibly be serious. The Orrian Elder Dragon has been around for centuries, if not millennia. It’s impossible to fight it by yourself, and it’s not even certain if it can be destroyed. Furthermore, even though this is an impressive collection, this is hardly sufficient to take on such a monstrous foe. And what makes you think that _I_ dreamt of it? My Hunt is different from yours, sprout.”

“Then what is it? There is no need to belittle me.” Llumin’s voice seemed to come from two places in the room. Nettle glanced behind her. To her shock, an exact copy of the dark-haired sylvari stood ten feet away. It smiled at her.

 “Confused?” she asked, a lighthearted laugh silvering the end of her question. Her voice came from in front and to the side now, adding one more echo to the mesmeric clones. “Oh, don’t be so shocked. This took me weeks to master,” Llumin sighed. Wrinkling her forehead, she banished the illusions, shattering them into multitudes of magenta butterflies which soared away on invisible currents.

“Butterflies. Really?” Nettle had regained her composure. The younger sylvari smiled proudly as she peered over her scroll.

“They’re pretty.”

“Oh, well, Pale Tree’s boughs, what’s the point of magic if it isn’t _pretty?”_ the necromancer sighed, staring at the ceiling. She laughed. “We’ve gotten off on a terrible foot, haven’t we? Let’s start over. I’m Nettle Viridia.”

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Llumin.”

A smile graced the pale sylvari’s lips. “You must have been here for days, judging by the state of this room. What say you and I get a bite to eat, and we can talk later?”

The back of Llumin’s neck prickled. She dismissed the sensation – after all, it had been a while since she had eaten – and nodded. “I’ll see about cleaning up these books and joining you. I could really use a drink.”

Nettle’s smile widened, her teeth flashing in the luminescence of the lanterns above. “I would like that.”


	56. Arc 3, Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Traveling Circus arrives at the Priory. Selana confronts Nettle about her methods.

 

The storm eventually blew over, and within the next several days, the party arrived at the Durmand Priory. Despite their tired legs, the travelers somehow managed to haul their weary forms up the carved stone stairs and into the mountain’s chiseled face, entering the open plaza of the Priory. Myrie leaned heavily against the wrought-iron railing, squinting at the silver-and-blue banners that snapped in the frigid gusts of the Shiverpeaks. _For a bunch of bookworms,_ she thought, _I’ll admit that their sense of grandeur is impressive._

A cry of greeting echoed across the frozen air as one of the sentries spotted them.

“The Novices have returned – and they’ve brought allies! Quick, someone bring a stack of blankets. Who knows how long they’ve been out in this cold.”

Before her snow-addled mind could comprehend what was happening, Myrie and the others were rushed into the main building out of the wind and into a spacious plaza where torches flickered in high bronze braziers. In the center of the room was a towering pillar of light, interspersed with hovering tablets of etched stone.

“Some say that these tablets represent the entirety of the Priory’s accumulated knowledge,” a familiar voice spoke. Selana’s head, which had been slumped in exhaustion, whipped up.

“Llumin!” A smile swept across her features. The sand-colored sylvari gave a soft laugh.

“What made you think you could defeat the storms of the Shiverpeaks – and why didn’t you write sooner about your arrival? Magister Lyca only told me of your trip yesterday, and that was _after_ preparing the entire Priory for you.”

“What Llumin means to say,” Nettle said, stepping from the shadows and walking towards them, “is that she is glad to see you healthy and well.”

Khimma sneezed.

“For the most part,” the necromancer amended. A tall, white-haired woman strode into the room, followed shortly by an enormous alpine wolf of similar color. Her skin – what she could see of it — was tattooed with swirling patterns, and her muscular frame seemed to be carved from marble.

“I am Magister Lyca Whitestorm,” she greeted, her deep, soothing voice calming the travelers’ tired bodies. “Gryphon has kept me in contact with your travels for quite a while. I will never forget the first letter he sent, when he enquired about the nature of the Mursaat and their spells. If I remember correctly,” she said, smiling, “it had to do with a particular thief who had found a captured White Mantle and irritated one of their ‘Unseen Ones.’”

Myrie’s eyes widened. “Wait, _you_ were Gryphon’s contact in the Priory? Even back then?”

The woman – who Myrie realized was in fact a norn – nodded. “I’ve been keeping in touch with Gryphon for a while now. Though he hadn’t told me that you were traveling with two of the Priory’s newest members.”

“It was a last-minute decision,” Khimma said, sipping delicately from a mug of spiced wine which had been pressed into her hands. “Nettle over there had decided to go her own way. I see she brought you to us,” she smiled at Llumin with that last statement. The mesmer shook her head.

“In fact, that is not the case. After a brief conversation with some of the Order’s representatives, I have decided to join them. Nettle decided to follow me here to ensure that I arrived safely.”

“How considerate of you,” Myrie muttered, narrowing her eyes at the necromancer. The pale sylvari smiled prettily.

“She’s seemed to take quite an interest in the human gods as of late,” she mused, pausing by a refreshments table to pour herself a mug of tea. “Isn’t that fascinating?” Nettle turned her beaming face towards Selana, whose fingers gripped her mug so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.

“Very,” she said coldly. “If you’ll excuse me, Nettle, perhaps we could talk privately. There is something I want to ask you.”

 

The elementalist, having recovered from her bout with the cold, stood, thanking the nearby Novices for the blankets and refreshments. She beckoned for the necromancer to follow. They walked around a stone pillar, where Selana made sure they were out of earshot. Having ensured that they had not been followed, the human spoke first, her voice struggling to remain steady.

“You told me that you were staying behind because we had other guides,” she said frostily. Despite the fury pouring from Selana’s gaze, the necromancer did not blink.

“I did not lie about that,” she replied smoothly. “You arrived safely, and I went my separate way. I returned to the Grove, checked on Sylfia – who is recovering well, yet is still unconscious – and decided to pay your darling sister a visit.”

“She was supposed to allow her human side to recede or become pronounced naturally. You weren’t supposed to accelerate the process by drinking her blood!”

“And how long would it have taken ‘naturally’, hm?” the necromancer hissed. “The Dragons won’t wait for us to be prepared before we attack them. More are rising and stirring every day, siphoning magic from the world even as they prepare for their attacks upon this plane. The sooner we have our allies in a sound frame of mind, the more ready we will be to finally send them back to sleep.”

“Last I had seen, she _seemed_ to be sound of mind.”

 _“You_ are not one to speak on that subject. Though you may be able to claim relation through what small fragment of her mind is still human, you are not sylvari. We have an empathetic connection to others of our race which is unable to be replicated outside of our kind, and to be frank, from the moment I met her, there seemed to be something ‘off.’ To test my theory, I waited for her to fall asleep and forged a blood-link to enter her mind. For some reason she cannot fully know, she is not entirely comfortable in her own skin – and this recent link showed that the core of her insecurities is within the suppression of her central human mind. By freeing what little of it is there, she has become more curious about her heritage. Although she doesn’t know the true reason for her sudden interest in human culture –”

“You didn’t tell her she was born human?”

Nettle sneered. “Do you think I would want her to have a deeper identity crisis than what is already presented? She only knows that her empathy for humans is higher than that of other non-sylvari. Her past is still unknown to her, and if she was to hear that she had been born outside of what she perceives as her true race, the results could be… unpleasant.”

Selana felt her heart sink; at the same time, she recognized the truth in Nettle’s statement. Realization flashed through her mind.

“How were you able to harm her if my parents’ specters were around her?”

“It’s possible that they weren’t,” Nettle smiled, her eyes unsettlingly-cold. “Ghosts are fascinating subjects, but they are only able to exist in one area at a time – and since you are their most-human daughter living, I assumed they would be more likely to stay around you.”

A sharp cry of warning echoed through the frosty air, followed closely by a deep, teeth-shaking rumble. Selana’s eyes flew up as an enormous slab of the mountainside cleaved from its hold and plummeted towards the sylvari.

“Look out!” she shouted, shoving the necromancer out of its path. Both women fell to the ground in a heap of powdered snow and stone.

“That would have crushed you,” the elementalist muttered as she righted herself. A blue mist, which she had initially thought to be dusty stone and ice, formed into two human shapes, revealing themselves as the ghosts of Arcon and Deirdre Firestone.

“Congratulations,” the lord’s ghost spat, eyes blazing white with fury. “You, Nettle Viridia, have done something so idiotic as to pull our attention away from Selana and incur our wrath.”

“We warned you about hurting our daughters,” his wife growled. “And you still decided to hurt Llumin.”

“I’ve _helped_ her! Her mind will –”

“Mists curse it, her mind would have recovered!”

The necromancer barked a laugh. “How would _you_ know? You’re dead! Whatever state you died in is your permanent state until you finally move on!”

Lord Arcon’s ghost stalked forward and pointed a transparent finger at her. “Sylvari, know that no matter how trained you are in the art of death, you are but a young creature, and a mortal at that. _If_ her mental stability _does_ improve, I and my wife will let you be. Until then,” he paused, and a grim smile overtook his handsome features, “consider yourself host to a rather large amount of bad luck.”

“Unless it involves our daughters, you’re going to have a very interesting time while we determine Llumin’s state of being.” Lady Deirdre’s gaze unsettled Selana.

“Mother,” she said firmly, “perhaps you could restrict your ‘bad luck’ to her experiments? She’s an Order of Whispers agent, ” – here the sylvari’s head swiveled to Selana in an expression of shock – “ so it’s entirely possible that her missions may be of more importance than we can tell in a given moment.”

Her father’s ghost crossed his arms and sighed. “Fine. But keep an eye on her if you can, all right? And your mother and I will take turns between keeping the plant in check and ensuring your safety.”

Although Nettle seemed irritated at being referred to as a plant, she had come to the realization that her experiments were in danger and decided to avoid incurring any further spectral wrath by keeping her mouth shut.

“We’ll see how this progresses,” Selana said. “And while I can’t agree with your actions or their results, Nettle, we have more important things on which to focus our attentions for now.”


	57. Arc 3, Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin does some light reading.

 

Llumin was blissfully unaware of the world around her. Surrounded once more in a towering palace of opened parchments, scrolls, and books, she inhaled the scents of old paper, the mellow tang of ancient leather, and the sweet-peppery smell of long-forgotten magics. Unlike her previous study time, her topic of focus was more for pleasure than for her Hunt. She wound a strand of fern-like, dark amethyst hair around her finger and glanced up at her flickering candle-light. Frowning, she lit a new candle with the flame of the dying stub. Her light problem settled, she pinched out the old flame, smiled, and wiggled further into her chair. Her fingers tapped on the cracked binding of an old human tome, titled, _The Gods and Their Legends._ Having perused the table of contents, she carefully flipped through the smooth, yellowed pages until she came to an illustration of what at first seemed to be twin sisters, dancing back-to-back. Both smiled, though half of their faces were covered in separate halves of an enigmatic mask. Upon closer inspection, Llumin noticed that at some point in their hips, the sisters were joined together, bound eternally in their weaving dance.

“Lyssa, the goddess of beauty, illusion, and water, is composed of the twins Illya and Lyss. Together they are known as Lyssa; very few refer to her by her dual names. Lyssa is known to represent duality and hidden messages; those who are under disguise are perhaps her closest followers. Actors and mesmers frequently employ her qualities and show her gifts to those lacking – the former through the art of story, the latter through the art of manipulation. By showing truth and knowledge as a many-sided gem instead of a simple black and white, the minds of the unknowing can be made malleable – and those who follow Lyssa know this truth well.”

Llumin’s finger traced the dancing, mysterious image, wondering the reason behind their smiles and recalling her own way of dealing with difficulties. Wasn’t a smile more misleading than showing your true emotions? Despite herself, she found the corners of her mouth moving upward. Truly strange, yet comforting, she thought, inhaling deeply as she brought the tome near her face. The scents of cardamom, cinnamon, and pepper mixed with the smells of incense and old paper, adding to an electric overtone which both thrilled and calmed her senses. She felt drawn to Lyssa above the other human deities; though she couldn’t say she would worship them, the joined sisters gave her an inexplicable sense of calm.

A knock on the library’s doorframe interrupted her concentration. Startled, she nearly dropped the book and stood, dusting her skirt off in a hurry and snatching her staff.

“No need to worry,” an unfamiliar voice said. A white-haired norn, young in face and frame, ducked into the library before straightening. Though short for most of her race, the woman’s head was still closer to the ceiling than most races would be able to reach. Her eyes crinkled warmly. “You must have been down here for ages,” she noted, seeing the small pile of burnt-out candle nubs on the stone floor. She bent down and scooped them up, depositing them in a bin with other wax ends.

“Magister Whitestorm,” Llumin stammered. “I’m sorry for the mess – I simply became so invested in the books that I completely – ”

The norn waved the sylvari’s concerns aside. “You are not the first Novice, nor certainly the last Priory member who has found themselves enthralled by the archives of our Order. But you should go to sleep.”

“It’s night?” Llumin’s eyes widened in horror. “But I was barely outside enough to greet our guests! I’ll go say goodnight to them right now.”

“Hold on, little one,” Lyca laughed. She placed her large hands on Llumin’s shoulders; the sylvari was made aware of just how small she was compared to the giantess. So she did hold on and arched a curious eyebrow at her.

“Your friends are sleeping,” she said calmly. “We can greet them in the morning. How was your research?”

The mesmer gave a long, tired sigh. “It’s still an ongoing process. I’m starting to wonder, though, if we as an Order are truly prepared to deal with even one Elder Dragon. From what I’ve seen, there are at least five or even six of them sleeping in the world and feasting on its magic. If we, though knowledgeable as we are, are unable to defeat them…” She let her uncertain phrase wither in the air like a rotten vine. Lyca frowned and knelt, facing the sylvari’s eye level.

“Young one,” she said, her tone firm, “know this. If we are unable to defeat the dragons with the power of our Order, it is not the end of the world. There are others out there, and though it turns the stomach of many, it might one day become evident that we will have to join forces with the other two Orders. Though the Order of Whispers is full of backstabbing lowlives and the Vigil’s strongest assets are its muscles and manpower, we cannot deny that their ways are, in many cases, effective. Now, rest. You can continue your research another day.”

The mesmer nodded, sighing shakily. “Should I…?”

The norn waved a hand, fanning the question away. “Don’t worry about cleaning up. I’ll take care of it. Go and rest.”

Llumin bowed her head in thanks, smiled, and walked toward her chambers.


	58. Arc 3, Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klixx is introduced to the ground and makes some observations on friendship.

Klixx was not anticipating starting his morning on his face. He had woken up early, stretched, and had his mind almost instantly fill with the thoughts of a delightful breakfast in the Order’s dining hall. The thought evaporated quickly, replaced by one of shock followed shortly by pain as, with a small mechanical whirr and a silvery flash, he glanced down to find his boot-laces had been tied together and his balance had been lost to the ground.

“KHIMMA!” he bellowed after peeling his nose from the stone floor. He glowered after her tiny SHU-TY golem as it clinked up the stairs and away from him. Making a series of curses, most of which promised to turn that scrap of faulty magitech into sparking metal, he stomped as loudly as he could towards his companion’s bed and knocked on its frame. She bolted upright, strands of hair floating wispily in the morning air, and looked down at him groggily.

“What is it now, Klixx?” she groaned, grinding the palms of her hands into her large eyes.

“Your golem,” he spat, trying to keep his eye from twitching, “has just made another assassination attempt on my life.”

“Wh- SHU-TY? He’d never,” she protested. She rolled over, yanking the covers over her head as she snuggled back into her warm cocoon of a bed. “Now, let me sleep. We’ve all got to head back to the Grove later on, and it will be a long trek back to Lion’s Arch.”

The asura gave a low growl and decided that more drastic measures needed to be taken. Concentrating, he began to build a static charge. This task was easily accomplished due to the dry mountain air. A wicked grin flashed onto his face as he gingerly gathered the glowing spark onto his finger, reached onto his tiptoes, and poked his dozing krewemember with a loud, dry _pop_ as it discharged its energy.

Khimma sat up with a yelp, her bright blue hair floating in a halo, and rubbed her arm.

“Klixx!” she whined accusingly, wincing as she massaged the pain away and glowered at her companion. His face showed no remorse and instead displayed a grim sense of satisfaction.

“Welcome to the morning,” he said wryly. “Your golem is already causing chaos in the upper levels and the rest of the party is getting ready to head out.”

“Why should it matter to us?” Khimma groaned, hauling her frame out of the bed and dropping onto the floor. “We’re not exactly official members.”

“We spent three days in a snow-covered cave, eating spider-legs and keeping the fire from going out. Based on my research into the ratio of hardship-to-bonding, I would almost certainly guarantee that the humans and sylvari would be more than willing to accept our company on their journeys. Besides that, we’ve already proven ourselves worthy combatants and allies.”

Khimma’s bare feet slapped on the stone floor. She sat down and started strapping her armor over her pajamas. “Maybe,” she conceded, squinting an eye closed.

“It’s not even that bright down here,” Klixx huffed. “We were originally an underground species – this should be tolerable, even preferred, to what we’re usually in.”

“Remember another part of your research? Albinos are extremely-sensitive to light.” She lifted  her hair, pointing to the snow-white roots. “I’m going to need to get another bottle of hair dye from that charr when we stop in Lion’s Arch.”

“Maybe you would get more college grants if you went with a more normal color?” Klixx’s tone was hopeful, but his krewemember merely turned her pert nose up and gave a light sniff of derision.

“Anyone who’s as pale as I am _without_ having it due to research-induced lack of sun or tragic experiment gone wrong is seen as strange. You know that, Klixx.”

“Yes, but it shouldn’t be such an oddity. Just because you are…” He cleared his throat, words dying beneath her raised eyebrows. “You know what, forget it,” he sighed. “Personally, I agree with you – those pea-brained smallears should get back to basing grants on brainpower instead of appearance or prestige.”

A smile finally appeared on Khimma’s face. “Even with such prestigious Staticians such as ourselves?”

Klixx chuckled. “Not yet.”

A brown-haired head ducked into their room.

“Hey,” Myrie said, pulling her mask down and letting her breath fog in the cold air, “we’re getting ready. Do you guys want to come or not?”

“Just give us a moment,” Klixx replied, bending down and relacing his boots. When he looked up, Khimma was grinning up the doorshaft.

“This is _so_ much better than writing papers for grants,” she beamed.

 

 

The asura emerged into the torchlit clearing and found themselves in the middle of the party’s final preparations for their next expedition.

“We’ve had reports come in of a possible Risen sighting in Overlake Haven,” Llumin stated as she hoisted her pack over her shoulder. “Normally, Priory members are more focused on artifact retrieval, but Iowerth, my recruiter, says that for Risen to attack such a well-fortified compound must mean that something incredibly strong is leading the assault. The unpredictable nature of this attack makes it a repel-and-defend mission only. We are not to engage if they flee and should keep our focus on the people involved.”

“So is he leading the mission?” Khimma asked. She tapped her golem on its cranial crystal, and it folded into an oval which she stuffed in her bag. “I don’t see Magisters Sieran or Whitestorm here.”

“Yes. Sieran and Whitestorm are going to stay at the main base – though I believe the former is there as a punishment for taking me on an unplanned tomb-raid, while the latter is continuing her research into an artifact which may be related to the Elder Dragon of Ice, Jormag.”

Klixx puffed up alongside them, tugging on the knot of brown hair at the back of his head to keep some loose strands in place. “So why would Zhaitan attack Overlake Haven? Aside from it being unusually high-risk, aren’t there other places where the dragon could harvest its minions?”

“Yes, but we’re still not sure what would drive it to seek out this area. Even if it doesn’t end up being terribly important in terms of land, there are enough humans or other races there to add to its army.”

“Excuse me,” Myrie piped up, jogging alongside and raising her hand. “Human here. I’ve heard of the Elder Dragons, but how do they go about adding to their ‘armies’?”

“They consume or alter the forms of the living and dead,” Nettle said simply. “Even sentient magic of the slightest kind adds to their power. Sylvari such as Elmfrond, myself, and Llumin are all immune to Zhaitan’s power. You fleshies, on the other hand,” she said, a wicked grin flashing on her face, “are rich in dragon-food potential.”

Myrie’s face paled, and she turned around, briskly walking to the other side of the clearing until she stood alongside Selana. “You didn’t tell me we were at risk of becoming possible dragon bait!” she hissed. The elementalist didn’t even give her a glance, pausing only briefly to inspect a canister of lavender tea which she placed delicately in her pack.

“It matters not that we are at risk of death. Everything has a risk, and if we do die fighting against the threat of the dragons, at least we will have commanded a worthy passing.”

Myrie snorted. “There’s no reason to be so dour. I know you’d put up a fight before getting corrupted, and me? Well, I’d go down kicking, screaming, and filling that slimy reptile’s throat with lead!”

The elementalist gave a quiet laugh. “True enough. You’re so short, though; you’d barely make a morsel in Zhaitan’s throat.”

The thief responded to this retort by lifting one of the flame-headed woman’s parcels of mushroom sandwich and proceeding to munch calmly on it while looking her directly in the eye. “At least I’d be well-seasoned.”

Llumin gave her pack one last tug to close its opening before clearing her throat lightly. “Due to the nature of this area and the fact that this will be only my second mission, Iowerth will explain the plan of attack.”

“Thank you,” the golden sylvari said, stepping forward. “In order to minimize the risk of lives lost, we are going to deploy self-destructive combative golems to fight off Risen. These will not only allow us to defend the fortress without risking as many lives, but it will allow us to use the golems’ heads to give us a view of the battlefield. Should it be proven that there is, indeed, a high risk of encountering a stronger-than-expected Risen foe, we will remove as many people from the outpost as we can in order to fall back and study it without incurring massive casualties.” He pulled out a staff and walked to the front of the group. “While I understand that we have members of other Orders among us, this is a Priory task; therefore, I would appreciate it if we could simply follow the greater sum of this party and follow according to my plan.”

Selana nodded. “We understand. Ready to move out when you are.”


	59. Arc 3, Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Priory's mission at Fort Concordia reveals some disturbing information.

 The Lionguard on duty at Fort Concordia were on edge. Over the past several days, an evil miasma had settled over the outpost. First came the ravens, which swarmed thick and black in the nearby trees and stared down at them with impatient hunger. Then the stampedes occurred, and all surrounding fauna, including those black birds, had flown away, screeching, hooting, and baying as they ran. The worst part, however, was the final silence – the strange, thick pallor of death that hung in the air, and the sickly green haze which hovered over the ground. Soldiers who breathed it in often became violently ill or unwell in the mind, muttering nervously about shadows in the water and staring over their shoulders as if the Orrian Dragon itself were lurking nearby. However, there were some who held hope; perhaps the signs were all wrong. The sea could be a fickle mistress, after all. For those who were cautious, though, there were some who had faith in the appearance of their reinforcements from the Priory.

 

“We’ve already informed the captain via messenger bird that our plan of attack will be more defensive than offensive,” Iowerth said. “We’re here to push the Risen out; not pursue them all the way to Orr and back.” Klixx, meanwhile, had hauled a large magitech cylinder from a cart and, with Khimma’s help, set it on the ground with a clunk. He stretched his fingers before tapping a set of oblong diamond buttons, starting the machine with a low whirr and hum. While the golem activation device slowly purred to life, the rest of the party took defensive positions. Nettle and Myrie were to help the golem make it into the fort’s doors; the rest were to stay back and protect the operator from any stray Risen who may have gotten the idea to shamble towards the controller of the machine instead of the device itself. The chances of that seemed unlikely, though – most of the undead were going to focus on the larger group of potential prey than the small gathering of adventurers. Klixx gave the machine one final set of commands and watched it launch a small golem out of its top like a cork from a bottle. He dusted off his hands and stepped back, giving an exaggerated bow to Llumin.

“The honor’s all yours, little leaf,” he declared. “The controls are simple, but if you have any troubleshooting issues, the designers _are_ right here.”

Khimma pointed to the glassy, flickering panel by the buttons. “This is the golem’s eye – if you keep your eyes on the screen, you’ll be able to see what it sees. Let us know if you spot something unusual.”

The sylvari pursed her lips. “And risen, walking corpses from the sea are considered usual in this case?”

“They are, unless they seem to move with an intelligence greater than can be expected of a semi-rotten fish-brain.”

Her brow furrowed as her fingers fluttered over the command input. “And how will I be able to tell _that?”_

Iowerth gave a humorless laugh. “Believe me, you’ll know.”

 

The Risen eagle soared low over the fort’s parapets, dead eyes seeking weaknesses, prey, and a point of entrance for the attack. Its scouting was abruptly interrupted by a single black arrow which cleanly severed its soft head from its neck. The Lionguard who had sniped it gave a grin. “Not so bad,” he chuckled, readying another. “Those eggheads at the Priory worry too much.”

The charr next to him gave a growl. “I wouldn’t be so confident. Eagles are scouts – and if you shot it down, there will be more on their way. And Priory members rarely overestimate things, so you’d best watch your tongue before some undead norn yanks it out of your head and uses it for a shoe.”

The first guard paused, unnocking his arrow. “Do undead even have shoes?”

The charr opened his mouth to retort, but his reply soured in his throat as his eyes latched onto the beachfront. “Enemies on the beach! All soldiers to your positions!”

 

It would have been comical at how slowly they had first shambled from the sea if it weren’t for the fact that, despite how quickly the initial wave had risen and fallen, the undead kept coming. For each corpse the Lionguard returned to rest, three more gasped and clawed to take its place. And with ever-increasing speed, the undead drew their weapons; gave low, gurgling growls; and began to run towards the walls. The horrible sounds of wailing and wet, fleshy thumps and crunches filled the air as, with the slow, unending patience of the sea, the Orrians tore into the stone walls of the fortress.

“They’re coming through!” the first guard bellowed, feet pumping as he raced to the floor from his place on the wall. “They’re breaking it down!”

“Keep your head on, mouse!” the charr roared, golden armor stained with rotten blood as he shot another eagle from the sky. “The last thing we need is for you to lose your focus during an attack.”

A norn next to him raised her fingers to the sky and traced fire through the air, scorching more undead with the stomach-churning smells of rotten seaweed and putrid meat. “It would take hours for these puny rots to break through this wall; it’s been standing for over fifty years, and unless they have something truly monstrous, we’ll be able to weed them out by that time.”

Her confident swagger shriveled as, on the horizon, a hulking aberration of mangled, twisted corpses lurched from the sea, casting its enormous shadow on the suddenly-fragile looking embankments.

“You just had to say something, didn’t you?” the human growled.

The risen abomination raised its hammer, roared, and charged at the wall.

It broke like wet tissue paper.

 

Further up the hill, a hunched, black-cloaked figure hovered slightly above the ground, its robes wispy yet rotten, and its face the sickly green skull of death. Its hollow eyesockets glowed with power, and its pale-sinewed arms flexed with the magics it wielded. As it watched the battle below, a low hiss escaped its broken-toothed maw. Flexing its hand and concentrating, the figure directed its influence towards the front of the gate, where the guards were thinning and two persistent women refused to die. From deep within the sea, the dragon’s forces responded, slowly trailing reanimated corpses to the front of the building and crashing on the thin wooden gate like a hellish wave. In the full view of such a pitiable scene, the skeletal creature raised its face to the sky and let out a dry, hollow laugh that sounded like the throat of the world had been slit.

 

“There!” Klixx’s voice echoed and rang in Llumin’s ear; the asura had practically leapt upon the device and stabbed his finger at the screen. “Do you see that?”

The sylvari carefully detonated another golem, sending rotten chunks of flesh spewing high into the air. “I’m rather busy at the moment; whatever that was, I only caught a glimpse of it.”

“Well, send out another golem and go that way again.”

A distant cry gave the group pause. Selana drew her staff. “Nettle and Myrie are in trouble; Elmfrond, come with me. We need to make sure they survive. Klixx, Khimma?”

“Just go! We’ll protect the salads however we can.” Khimma waved the human off as she drew her hammer. Another golem shot high from the device, landing like a meteor in the center of combat between the Risen and the defenders.

“Now, go left!”

“I will go whichever direction is needed! At the moment, if I can lay down a few more traps….”

“There! It’s there!” Khimma’s excited shriek was like an icepick in Llumin’s ears. She gave a low growl as her mine sent several more of the flaccid corpses to the Mists. Thankfully, the attacks seemed to be lessening. She turned the golem in the direction the asura had pointed. Within seconds, a horrific being loomed in front of the viewing screen. Its skeletal face opened as if in a roar of fury, and its flayed arm pointed a clawed finger at the device. Shortly thereafter, there was a distant _boom,_ and the group knew that the golem had been detonated. Tension zinged through her body, and her entire form seemed to be as rigid as a bowstring.

“They’re falling back! We’ve beat them!” came a triumphant cry. Elmfrond laughed as he helped support Myrie and as Nettle staggered back with Selana towards the party. “They’ve all retreated back into the sea,” he beamed. “We lost hardly anyone.”

Myrie stumbled over and gave Llumin a pat on the back. “Hey, g…good job there, Llumin. You should…you should celebrate.” The thief slid down until she sat upon the ground, her eyes glassy. The mesmer followed suit shortly, sitting next to her. Myrie arched an eyebrow.

“What’s that for? You weren’t even in the battle.”

“It’s not over,” Iowerth broke in, his tone grim. “We may have diverted this little sortie, but I believe that whatever led the attack will return elsewhere – this was merely a distraction.”

“Well, does that distraction have a classification?” Khimma asked.

“It was a lich,” the senior Priory stated dully. “A member of Zhaitan’s strongest sorcerers. If it was here, it stands to reason that it – or others under its command – will rise elsewhere. We’ve done well for today, but we must find out who that creature was before we face it in battle. The longer it lives, the more danger the world is in.”

 

“So, where are we headed now?” Myrie was favoring her right leg, but aside from some minor injuries, she was relatively unharmed. After they had ensured that there were no lingering Risen within the fort’s walls, the group had moved back towards the Priory, where they were resting and recovering from the battle.

“Despite our centuries of research and knowledge, trying to find out which lich we encountered would take too long; in that time, who knows where it may head or how it may behave?” Khimma gnawed absently on the tip of her ponytail. “And I can’t think of anyone here who has had the time or devotion to study nothing but Orrian creatures. This could take forever – and forever’s something we don’t have!”

Llumin, who had been quietly thinking to herself for most of the journey back, suddenly perked up. “I just might know someone who could help us with our lich problem.” She glanced towards Khimma. “Did you manage to get a good view of it? Your memory is probably better than mine right now.”

The asura scrunched her nose. “Of course it is, bookah. And as much as I hate to have it that way, the rotting image of that thing isn’t getting out of my mind any time soon.”

Llumin smiled. “Then we can head to the Grove again to solve two problems: One shall be to see Sylfia, and the other will be to find Trahearne.”

 

Myrie was getting rather tired of all of the bugs in the jungle. While she did understand and appreciate the reason for many of their existences, it did not lessen her dislike for them. What always impressed her, though, was the lack of bloodsucking pests in the Grove; the only creatures within lived in peaceful harmony with its residents. She snuck a glance at Nettle. Well, maybe most of them did. That one still had her concerns. Llumin brushed ahead of her, eyes gleaming with determination as she strode toward a large, teardrop-shaped seedpod-elevator. Myrie gave it a skeptical glance.

“Are we supposed to be carried somewhere in that thing?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. Llumin laughed.

“Despite its appearance,” she said, stepping in as the leaf-door opened downward, “they are extremely sturdy. And don’t worry about it becoming misdirected – they move with the will of the Pale Tree, and only on set paths.” She motioned for them to step inside. “There’s plenty of room.”

Klixx sneezed. “And you’re certain we won’t have to stand on each other’s heads?”

Nettle sighed, rolling her eyes as she joined Llumin in the elevator. “If you don’t fit, I’ll find a way for it to work.”

Myrie never thought she would see an elevator fill so quickly. Somehow, as Llumin had stated, they all managed to fit. There was a slight tug in the bottom of her gut, and as she squeezed over to the window to look outside, she saw that they were drifting upwards ever so gently. She raised her eyebrows and returned to her previous position. That wasn’t so bad after all. Within seconds, the party arrived at the top of the bower and were within the presence of the Pale Tree.


	60. Arc 3, Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Pale Tree identifies the mysterious creature. The Traveling Circus prepares to find out what happened to the sword, Caladbolg.

 

Chapter 30:

To Myrie’s surprise, Trahearne was already in the bower, talking quietly with the Pale Tree. However, as the party drew near, the Firstborn glanced their way, and he stepped aside with a bow.

“It is good to see you again, Mother Tree,” Llumin murmured, kneeling as she approached. “May your boughs grow ever-longer, and may your roots run still-deeper into nourishing soils.”

“It is good to see you once again, my daughter,” the Tree smiled. She beckoned for her to rise. “What brings you here today?”

Llumin took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as she spoke. “Mother, while my friends and I were out in the world, we saw and battled against the undead dragon’s minions. Although most of them were of the usual sort, one stood out among them. My friend, the asura, had a better view of it, so I will allow her to elaborate.”

The guardian stepped into the inner sanctum, bowing until the tips of her ears touched the ground.

“I am Khimma, a Statician from the asuran city of Rata Sum. We are here on a mission to see if the Firstborn, Trahearne, is able to assist us with identifying an undead creature we saw while defending Fort Concordia from the dragon’s minions.” She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. “Although to some, liches are merely another form of undead, we have knowledge from former experience that these categories of Risen are particularly nasty.”

“You have that right,” Trahearne muttered. His sunset-colored eyes glowed. “What did it look like?”

“I was getting there,” the asura said irately. Llumin sensed her frustration and gave a small mesmeric suggestion that she calm down. Thankfully, the asura took the idea as naturally as one of her own, and with a flex of her fingers, she continued. “Okay, so you have a general idea of how liches look, right? Nasty, skeletal creatures, usually wearing tattered, rotten robes and with a pretty awful stench of death magic around them? This one was worse than what I could have expected. The attack on Fort Concordia seemed to be more of a sortie than an actual fight, so I expected a minor undead with some power and average intellect. However, what I saw through the portable golem-bomb’s screen indicated that, whoever this was during its life, it is even more powerful in death. I had read that liches have a size-to-magic correspondence, and based on my calculations, this one was roughly twice the height of your ‘average’ lich. Not only are we dealing with an ancient draconic minion, we’re dealing with one which is extremely intelligent, powerful, and patient enough to test its army’s strength before determining a full-on attack. Does any of this help with identification?”

 

The Pale Tree’s face was shadowed.

“Mother?” Llumin asked cautiously.

The Tree’s avatar shook her head, as if removing herself from a fog of memory. “I know of what you speak. Trahearne, do you remember the creature that first slaughtered your brother?”

He nodded slowly. “Riannoc fell to a member of Zhaitain’s forces known as Mazdak the Accursed. Do you think that this lich is the same one they saw?”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

The green-skinned necromancer grimaced before turning to Llumin. “Riannoc was the most valiant sylvari I have ever known; among our Firstborn brothers and sisters, he was the most hopeful. He feared nothing; not death, not even the Elder Dragons. In his zeal to purge the world of the dragons’ spawn, he was slain by Mazdak’s horde of summoned dead. Although we were able to recover his body, we have never found his sword, Caladbolg.”

Myrie huffed. “Great; we know what the lich is, so why not find that instead of wasting our time trying to locate some silly sword?”

“This is no simple steel.” Trahearne’s voice was icy. “Caladbolg is the first and only sword to be made from the Pale Tree’s thorns. It is this sword alone which can slay Mazdak; no blade wrought from the earth can harm him. So I will excuse your ignorance about ‘some silly sword’ in favor of having your aid in finding it.”

  She paled. “Point taken,” she muttered. “Sorry.”

“Riannoc has been dead for many years,” Nettle crossed her arms. “What matter is it if we find his sword? Surely you could make another.” The last part of her statement was directed at the Pale Tree. 

“That sword contained the embodiment of my own power, child,” she said. “And while it still exists, whether in part or in whole, I will not make another. It is as much a matter of ability as it is caution, for in divesting my magic elsewhere, I run the risk of losing that sword to someone who might misuse it.”

A Warden who had stood guard gave the necromancer a pointed frown. “Someone like you.”

Nettle was silent, and only the slight workings of her mouth betrayed her fury. She finally gave a low, hissing sigh and turned her heel. “I won’t stand for slander. I’ll be on the lower floor.”

Selana briefly opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, shook her head, and turned back to the Pale Tree. “I apologize for my companion’s prickly nature.”

The avatar shook her golden head. “You have no need. Nettle is not the first nor will she be the last of my children to be tempted with the excesses of power and knowledge. I only hope she will use her abilities for the greater good of Tyria.”

“Speaking of which,” Llumin said gently, “we were wondering if it would be possible to somehow re-enact Riannoc’s death; to find out what his last moments were, and where exactly his sword may have gone.”

“Well, we’re out a necromancer,” Myrie noted flatly, glancing at the descending elevator-pod. “So I’m not sure how that’s going to work.”

Trahearne cleared his throat. “You’re not entirely down a necromancer. Riannoc’s death and the loss of his sword has plagued our kind for too long.  Should my power be necessary, I would be honored to help you.”

“Then it’s settled,” Llumin smiled. “We’ll find Riannoc’s grave and conduct a ritual to see what his final day was like, and then we will be able to find out what happened to Caladbolg.”

Myrie cast a glance toward the prone form of Sylfia, still bound in healing vines. “Maybe by the time we’re back, she’ll finally have healed and woken up. She’ll certainly be upset that she missed so much fun.”

Klixx’s wide mouth twisted into a sour look. “Oh, yes,” he muttered. _“Fun.”_


	61. Arc 3, Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin re-lives the day of Riannoc's death.

 The scene that appeared before her eyes was foggy, obscured by the Mists and the spectral essence of the man whose life she was seeing. Despite the warning that the transition could be shocking, Llumin still had to shake her head before making sense of it. When her mouth opened, a strong, male voice echoed into the night.

 

“Waine,” he said, stance faltering yet blade at the ready, “I know it looks frightening, but if you stay by me, we will be able to take them on. Stay by my side.” She felt her lips curve into a tired, determined smile, and through the eyes of the departed Firstborn, Riannoc, she glanced down behind her and saw the pale, frightened face of a human boy. His squire, she knew – though whether the information was from her readings or the memories echoed by the ritual, she could not tell.

An anguished cry tore through the night’s susurrus like a jagged cut. The Firstborn’s gaze snapped back towards the horizon, eyes narrowing as he sought the forms of his foes in the hazy sunset. There – he saw the Risen horde grasp and stagger from the swamp, weapons at the ready and with eyes clouded in death.

 His heart thrilled. This was his call – this was his Wyld Hunt. He raised the pale, faintly-glowing greatsword high and charged in. The thorn of the Pale Tree cleft through rusted metal and toughened sinew alike, hewing a gleaming path through the undead horde. A grim smile was frozen upon his features.

“Waine!” he called, peering back at his squire. “Notice my stance! Remember when you’re fighting the Risen, they often lack coherent strategy, preferring to fight in swarms. Don’t just stand there – try taking a swipe!”

The human gulped nervously, and for a moment, Llumin saw doubt flash through Riannoc’s mind. He banished the thought. Although he was but a boy, the sylvari had full confidence in his skill; he had seen it before, and the strength with which he fought promised to make him a warrior of renown. The only possible obstacle would be his cowardice, though the Firstborn was certain that he would overcome it.

“Sir!” The warning echoed into his ears, a terrified cry which caused him to turn around. Riannoc’s smile faltered. From the deeper parts of the swamp, a towering undead burst from a corruptive mark like a demon summoned from the blackest parts of the Underworld. A moment of paralyzing terror seized his mind; for half a second, he considered sheathing the sword and running, leaving the nearby town of Wytchmire undefended. They had their own Wardens; surely they could survive? He shook his head fiercely, steadying his stance and lifting the blade. No. He could not leave them like that.

The creature raised rotting arms and spoke in a terrible voice, summoning more Risen from beneath the swamp’s murky depths.

“Kill the sylvari and break the sword,” it groaned. “The Dragon cannot have that blade survive.”

The Firstborn whirled around, neatly severing dripping limbs from their bloated bodies. Liches. That’s what they were called.  Trahearne had warned him of their power, saying that, though possible to kill, their strength and connection to the Elder Dragon, Zhaitan, was immense, allowing them unimaginable powers and intellect. He rolled his shoulders, riposting an undead norn’s crashing strike and decapitating its head. It didn’t matter to him; lich or not, undead was undead, and the sword Caladbolg would ensure that it remained in the ground when killed for the last time.

“Stay back, Waine – be prepared to fight only if necessary, and back me up with your arrows,” he ordered. He turned back to the lich, feeling the nicks and bruises on his exposed skin start to prickle with unease. This wasn’t the first time he had fought against impossible odds, so why did he feel that unfamiliar sensation of fear? He glanced back, and his eyes bulged. “Waine!”

  His squire stood frozen in place, surrounded by encroaching undead. Although his sword was drawn, even from where he stood, Riannoc saw his blade shaking in terror.

“You cannot have him!” he cried, rushing to where the boy stood trembling. Pushing his squire aside, the knight struck wildly at his foes. It wasn’t just the bonds of mentorship that forced his hand; the squire was human, and that made him susceptible to becoming corrupted. He could never live with himself if that were to happen.

But the lich still stood, and he could have sworn he heard a low, contented chuckle. More undead surrounded him, and for one stunning moment of clarity, the valiant Firstborn realized that this was how he was going to die.

“Waine! Take the sword and strike down the lich! If you can hit him, he will die! One solid blow!” He threw the weapon at his squire, which landed heavily in the muck by his feet. The boy stared, pale-faced at the blade and took it in his shaking hands. A Risen norn battered Riannoc’s exposed back, sending him to the ground on all fours. “Go now, boy!” he ordered hoarsely. “Before they kill me and break the blade!”

Waine’s eyes brimmed with tears as he looked from the sword to his mentor. “No,” he whispered. “I can’t do this!” Taking the sword in his arms, the boy turned and ran. “I’m sorry, Riannoc; I can’t do this!”

“Waine!” Betrayal seared his heart. It was the last emotion he felt before a sword pierced his breast, sending his last breath rattling to the Pale Tree and his soul into the Dream.


	62. Arc 3, Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party splits up and attempts to figure out how to retrieve Caladbolg.

Llumin returned to the living world abruptly, her breath coming in the same gasp that Rinanoc had lost his life.

“Easy,” Trahearne’s voice anchored her back to reality, his steadying hand resting on her arm. “You’re back now. What did you see?”

“We’ve never done that before,” Caithe interrupted, her low voice unreadable. “Surely we could give her a moment to recover.”

“No, I’m fine,” Llumin replied. Her voice was shaky. “Riannoc was slain by Mazdak, but the sword still exists. His squire, Waine, betrayed him and took the blade. Riannoc knew that his squire struggled with cowardice, but had confidence in his strength and fighting skill. By now, he is most likely an adult; but where would someone like him find employment? Non-sylvari wouldn’t truly know of Caladbolg, but its powers would undoubtedly generate a stir.”

Myrie, who had been standing alongside Selana, perked up. “You know, the last time I was in Lion’s Arch, I had heard of some ‘Waine the Unbeatable.’ I’ve heard he fights with an indestructible blade. Could that be him?”

“Yes! Why didn’t you say anything before?” Elmfrond’s voice was incredulous.

“I’ve never been interested in the pit fights! And no one mentioned some crazy sword before you nutty sylvari came on rattling about it.” The thief frowned. “Although I don’t think he’ll be easy to beat. That thorn-sword – ”

“Caladbolg,” Trahearne corrected flatly.

“ — Salad Bowl or whatever, probably gives him some incredible power. I mean, it would have to; it was made for going against liches, so its magic is obviously pretty intense.” Myrie decided against saying anything further when she caught the unamused stares of the Firstborn. “Yeesh, you guys really can’t take a joke.”

“Myrie, to the sylvari, this is the equivalent of a holy relic – something like the sword of Balthazar or a vessel of Lyssa. You must understand, then, that to them, this _is_ no joking matter.”

The young woman sighed. “All right. I’m sorry; I didn’t know it meant that much to you.”

Elmfrond’s eyes bulged. “You mean the trek through the undead-haunted swamp, the fights against evil hylek, and the enormous mosquitos we vanquished – not to mention that difficult necromantic ritual – didn’t give it away?”

“Hey, I’m only human. Sylvari culture is still pretty different to me.”

“Well, different or not, we can all appreciate the role of effectiveness that Caladbolg could play in the war against Zhaitan. So, how should we get it back?”

The group was briefly silent. Caithe cleared her throat. “If I recall properly, you are all members of some of Tyria’s higher orders. Figure it out among yourselves – as for me, I have a meeting I must attend with some old allies. I will contact you when necessary.”

With that, the pale-skinned sylvari stepped into the shadows, vanishing into the lush greens.

“As always, my sister steps out during the worst of times,” Trahearne muttered crossly, flicking an irritated glance into the shrubs. “Though I hate to leave like this, I have to go, as well; there have been reports of Risen mutations in some of the recent battles, and Steward Gixx of the Durmand Priory has enlisted my help.”

“Yeah, about that…” Khimma sheepishly twisted her hair around a finger. “Klixx and I have also been called back for that one.”

“We’re basically there to make sure the experimental magitech we just got installed doesn’t reverse its ambient enervation flow and electrocute and/or blow up the Priory,” Klixx explained. “And since we are two of the Priory’s top researchers on the subject…”

“Oh, don’t worry about us, then,” Llumin sighed, waving her hand. “We’ll be fine. I’m sure we’ll be able to figure out a way to get the sword.”

Trahearne bowed his head. “I wish I could aid you – Caladbolg is the greatest weapon the Mother Tree has crafted, and will probably be the only one of its kind. May your mission be a success.”

“Yours as well,” the mesmer replied, taking a moment to bend down and shake the small hands of the asura. “I’ll write you when have the sword.”

Trahearne smiled. “I look forward to hearing from you soon.”


	63. Arc 3, Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrie discusses social taboos with Elmfrond; the group discusses a series of ideas on how to retrieve Caladbolg.

Myrie coughed as the salt-spray air of Lion’s Arch stung her face and lungs.

“I’ll never get used to that atmosphere change,” she muttered, eyes watering.

“If you think that’s bad, just remember what it was like going from here to Hoelbrak,” Selana reminded her. Elmfrond shuddered.

“Don’t remind me,” he said, rubbing his arms briskly. “I still get chills thinking of it.”

“You know, this is the smallest our party has been for a while. Khimma and Klixx have gone to the Priory, Nettle’s off doing gods-know-what, Sylfia’s still healing from that battle with Renvari…”

“You’ve still got me,” Elmfrond interjected, grinning broadly. Myrie chuckled.

“That we do. But it still doesn’t change the fact that it has been several weeks since our crew was just four.”

Selana smiled, her long strides carrying her ahead of the thieves. Llumin had been silent, her wide eyes taking in the city around them.

“Is this your first time here?” The elementalist’s voice carried through the sea-spray air with impressive clarity. Llumin blinked in surprise.

“Yes – are human cities always this big?”

Selana gave a laugh. “Not always. Divinity’s Reach, the capital of Kryta, is as large if not larger than Lion’s Arch.”

“Lion’s Arch isn’t just a human city, either,” Myrie added. “There used to be a time when that was the case, but now all that’s left of that period are the name and the ruins beneath the sea. This area’s a pretty good melting-pot – you can meet nearly anyone or anything in here.”

“Which isn’t always a good thing,” Selana noted, ducking her head beneath a merchant’s swaying luggage-pole. “Not everyone who comes to the big city leaves it.”

“You mean they decide to stay?” Llumin’s innocent question made the elementalist give a dry smile.

“In a way,” she replied. Myrie was not so subtle.

“They stay buried six feet deep – corpses can’t exactly move.”

“Unless they’re reanimated by necromancy!” Elmfrond interjected happily. The human thief gave him a look.

“You really shouldn’t sound so cheery when discussing that,” she said.

“Why not? It’s not like the bodies can complain – and they’re being used for good purposes.”

“All right, you gave me grief about my lack of sylvari cultural understanding, so I’ll go easy on you for your lack of human understanding. Those of us who are flesh generally are unnerved by the idea of someone reanimating and using our bodies after we’re dead – it’s considered a taboo subject in many of our cultures. This is usually because we still see them as friends or family members. It doesn’t matter that the soul has already gone; because of how we view the world, to many, it is still unnerving.” She smiled thinly. “So if it’s anything to you, if I somehow die in this bilgewater-infused city, please burn my body before anyone can use it.”

“And speaking of bodies,” Llumin said, pointing to a poster, “we may have found the one who is responsible for Riannoc’s death.”

Myrie peered at it. It was an advertisement for pit fights, with the final round being against the champion, Waine the Unyielding, with his pale sword forged from no steel.

She grinned. “All right, we’ve got our target. Now to make a plan.”

 

“I suppose I’d best state right now that shortly after our meeting, I decided to join the Vigil,” Myrie stated. Selana’s eyebrows rose only fractionally. The thief held up a hand and continued. “Unlike the others, we follow our words with steel and hold honor among brothers as its standard. Sure, we may not have as many resources as some, but we get stuff done.” She leaned back against a wooden pillar – they had stopped briefly in an enclosure to escape the noonday sun – and sighed. “So concerning the whole …Caladbolg incident… I recommend we do this in the most direct manner. We go into the pit, fight against Waine, and take the sword from his weepy, sad hands.”

“His hands would be weeping?” Elmfrond’s brow furrowed.

“No, _he’ll_ be weeping,” Llumin held up a finger. “Especially after he’s beaten so soundly.”

Selana gave a wry smile. “If I were more rash, I may have given you a bit of a shock for your insults to my Order, Myrie. Though it’s not common knowledge, I decided to join the Order of Whispers.”

The thief took a moment to rearrange her face from its sudden position of shock to one which would be more socially-presentable, but by that time, the elementalist had already seen, and her eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Why, you wonder, did I join? You didn’t need to ask. The Priory is full of knowledge, true, but the Order of Whispers seemed more familiar to me. As a highborn, the political games we play are bred into us from the day we are born. There’s backstabbing, intrigue, and the occasional scandal. Very few are above using dirty means to get what they want, and often, if you look hard enough, you can find the trail of mud left from the deed committed. Naturally, in an order that specializes using underhanded techniques and behind-the-scenes manipulation of events, I thought the Whispers would be a perfect fit. However, I will admit that its ties to Elona – and one of my ancestors - certainly added to the attraction.”

Myrie shook her head, taking a sip from a glass of water. “Somehow, I can’t see you as either manipulative or deceptive."

“You’re perceptive, then – though I _have_ used my connections to find out those who were not,” she replied. “But for this mission, some sleight-of-hand might prove useful. If we drug Waine’s drinking-tankard with a mild hallucinogen, we should be able to take off his fighting edge and press our advantage. When he loses to his opponent, he should place his sword in his tent while he recovers, leaving it ripe for the snatching. He’s predictable and a coward to boot, so there are very few reasons why he would deviate from the plan.” Her ice-blue gaze sought Llumin’s. “What does our resident Magister of the Priory have to say concerning the ideas for Caladbolg’s reacquisition?”

The fern-haired sylvari gave a sheepish smile. “Actually,” she said, “I was thinking that the Vigil’s plan sounded the best. What if Waine gets suspicious of his drink? Perhaps he would refuse to imbibe before a match starts. Certainly, he may take a drink once or twice before a round, but what if someone mixes the drug wrong, or what if the poisoner has to drink as well? There are too many risks with the Whispers’ plan, so I would go with Myrie’s.”

Elmfrond nodded. “I have to agree.”

“All right, then when’s the next match? And who should we send in?” Myrie set her empty cup on a rickety wooden table and leaned over it, glancing at her companions with curiosity. “I’m not bad in close-combat, but it still seems like a poor idea for me to carry a greatsword. They’re a bit large – and I’m really not.”

“True; it would be a pity to break the blade for sheer clumsiness,” Llumin mused. She ignored Myrie’s indignant cry and continued slowly, “I think that I may be more ready to fight him; after all, if I take the blade as a prize, I will already be familiar with it. When Trahearne cast the ritual on me, I not only saw as Riannoc saw, but I felt as he did as well. Somehow, if I were I to hold Caladbolg, it would be... fitting.” Her brows furrowed. “I’m not really sure  how to explain it.”

Selana nodded slightly. “You make a good point – and unless anyone else has a different idea, I vote that Llumin go in the ring.”

“Hold on! What if she’s unready for it?” Elmfrond’s eyes shone with concern. “No offense, but Llumin’s a mesmer – she’s able to deal some damage, but what if she gets hit?”

“Elmfrond, really. You needn’t worry about me.” The mesmer smiled. “I’ve been in battle before. I know I’m not as physically strong as you, but I believe that I am more than capable of taking on a lowbrow coward of a pit fighter. It might be scary, but I am willing to do whatever I can in order to return the sword to the Pale Mother.”

Elmfrond turned the combat poster over, running a green finger over its printed text. “Well, then, we’d best run to the Lion’s Circle by the Claw Island pier. The next set of fights is this evening, so if Llumin’s going to be ready, we’d best get going.”

Myrie grinned and gave the mesmer a good-natured slap on the back. “You hear that? You’re going into the pit fights! Get geared up, Miss Gladiator!”


	64. Arc 3, Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin's battle in the pits against Waine.

Llumin concentrated.  The thick, supple leaves that grew from her body toughened and lengthened in response. It had been a while since she had paid attention to her armor, and she figured that if she was going to be in close-combat with a brawler, she had best ensure that she was as protected as possible. Although she knew that her friends would be in the crowd, she knew that if they leapt in to join her, the results would be nothing short of chaotic. No matter how poorly the fight would go, she would need to fight Waine alone.

Would _she_ be able to defeat him? She, the pale, slender sylvari, so naïve and born only mere months ago, was to fight a battle-hardened, desperate gladiator who had defeated many before her to restore the honor of her home and the stolen sword he wielded. The task was certainly daunting. She took a deep breath, murmuring prayers to the Pale Tree, and bound her hair back with other strands that grew from the back of her neck. A faint scuff in the sand alerted to Myrie’s presence behind her.

“Hey,” the human said casually. “I thought you were getting ready for the fight, so I figured I’d drop by and see if you needed a pep talk or something.”

For a moment, the mesmer was quiet, her mouth pursed in thought. “Some food would be nice,” she finally said. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Myrie grinned. “Good thing I didn’t eat what Lyca sent, then – she somehow managed to buy an asuran warp package, and she used it to send us a veritable banquet. You might want to have something lighter than one of her sandwiches in your stomach, though – are you okay with eating salad?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Llumin took the ceramic bowl of greens from her and arched a curious brow.

“Well, you’re a plant, right? You might _look_ humanoid, but you’re not flesh and blood.”

“True,” the sylvari answered, taking a bite of the peppery-lemon leaves. “This is quite good! My compliments to Lyca – and her ingenuity considering the use of that pack.”

“I’ll let her know. But you don’t feel any connection to salad leaves, do you? I mean, I’ve heard that some sylvari can ‘hear’ plants or something…”

Suddenly realizing what the human was saying, Llumin’s eyes widened, and she gave a light laugh. “Do you really think that because I’m sylvari instead of fleshy like you that I have an…emotional connection to salads and fruits?”

Myrie’s ears reddened. “Well, I don’t know! _I_ can’t feel anything with them, but I’m also not a plant-person, and the idea just has been refusing to leave my mind lately, so…”

Llumin managed to regain her composure and wiped at her eyes, still letting loose the occasional giggle. “No, Myrie, I am not one who empathizes with vegetables and fruits. I haven’t heard of anyone who does, really – even our farmers, though they sense the health of their crops, do not ‘speak’ with their seedlings.”

“Oh.”

“No need to be embarrassed.  You’re probably not the first to wonder, and I’m certain you won’t be the last. Besides, I needed that laugh. All of this pre-competition stress is really quite awful.”

“Glad to be of assistance,” the thief replied, grinning sheepishly. “And I’m sorry if it wasn’t the most sensitive question.”

“As I’ve said, it’s water under the bridge. Who’s up next?” Llumin set her empty salad bowl on the dusty ground and gave a few practice thrusts with her sword.

Myrie looked behind her shoulder, watching as the newest competitor entered and exited the ring in rapid fashion, leaving the bloodstained sand with more bruises than he had probably bargained. She squashed her growing unease, turned back to the mesmer, and said, “You.”

 

The wooden, rickety stairs which descended into the sandy pit creaked in protest at even Llumin’s delicate tread. The insecurity of her footing certainly did nothing to help her nerves, but she made a deliberate effort to keep all signs of her unsettlement tamped firmly behind her resolution. Exhaling slowly through pursed lips, she closed her eyes and slipped on her harlequin’s mask, covering her face in its unmoving smile. When she returned her gaze to the opposite side of the arena, she saw her opponent descending with the cool confidence and swagger of an arrogant cat. Her stomach soured. How irreverently he held that glowing blade! What injustices he must have committed with it. No more.

“Yeah, Llumin! Knock him straight to the Mists!” Her head whipped up, startled, as she caught sight of her supporter. Myrie, who was sitting next to Selana and two across from Elmfrond, waved vigorously. The elementalist quickly whispered something in her ear, which caused the thief to sheepishly fan her hand in dismissal of her earlier comment.

“You’ve got this,” the noblewoman mouthed.

An asuran announcer waved her hands, summoning an enormous holographic projection of herself. The green spectacle clapped once, and the sound was amplified over the noise of the crowd, which only briefly lowered its volume.

“Joining our favorite champion, Waine the Unbeatable, the Undefeatable, the Bruiser and Cruiser is Llumin, sylvari from the Grove! Who will win? Place your bets – and keep your shovels ready for some new mulch, people!”

The human finally stood before her. She had to focus in order to keep her gaze on him instead of on the blade he bore.

“I’ve beaten dozens of your kind before,” he sneered. “And no matter how much you’re hiding behind that mask of yours, I can practically smell your fear from here.”

“You haven’t fought anything like me, Waine,” she murmured back, eyes narrowing. His face flickered briefly in confusion, but he shook his head and gave a tight frown.

 The announcer’s voice barely registered in her head as she turned from him and started walking.

“Remember the rules, people! No eye-gouging, permanent injuries, or deaths allowed! You fight until unable to do so – so let’s get this rumble started! Count your paces….ready…..and _let the battle begin!”_

 

 “You don’t really think she’ll lose, do you?” Myrie asked, her worried gaze on the slender sylvari below. “I mean, I’ve heard of this guy before. He’s pretty tough.”

“So is she.” Selana gave her a sidelong look. “Did you really ask her if she had a problem with eating salad?”

The thief’s face whipped towards her. “Who told you that?”

The elementalist shifted, crossing her arms; she did not take her gaze from the combatants in the arena. “You tend to forget that I can hear things from farther away than other non-elementalists. Remember that the winds are able to bring me their tidings unless concealed.”

“You were eavesdropping!”

A smile twitched onto the fiery woman’s face. “Perhaps.”

“Shh, shh! She’s going to need to concentrate,” Elmfrond hissed, bouncing excitedly in his seat.

“It looks like they’re just circling each other now,” Myrie murmured, brow furrowing. “Come on, when’s she going to strike?”

“She’s biding her time,” the elementalist said quietly. She gestured down at the sylvari. “Look; can’t you see that she’s watching him? I think she’s testing his mental stability somehow.”

Myrie gave her a sidelong look before returning her gaze fully to the two below.

 

“Come on,” Waine shouted enough for the crowd to hear. He raised Caladbolg high and brandished it at Llumin. “You didn’t come here to just run in circles, did you? I don’t even need to be close to knock your pretty petals off.” He swung it forward, and it sent forth a blast of magical energy which the mesmer barely dodged. She steadied herself as she adjusted her position.

“Watch my stance,” she murmured, her voice carrying like a calm current over the crowd’s boos and taunts. Waine’s face twitched; confusion briefly flickered over his dirty face.

“What did you say?”

Llumin’s harlequin mask leered silently at him. With a burst of speed, the sylvari dashed forward, flicking her blade at his face. He flinched away from her strike. A few strands of his brown hair lazily fluttered to the ground. He returned his attention to her – only to find that there were now two of her in the arena.

“What is this?” he growled.

“You’re looking a bit unsteady. Hold your sword firmly,” she whispered. Her voice layered with one he saw silenced years ago.

“No,” he murmured, eyes widening. He grit his teeth and charged recklessly at the woman, swinging Caladbolg fiercely. The blade shattered one of her illusions, and when he turned and struck with its hilt, he grinned as he felt it connect with something solid. She gave a low grunt of pain as she was knocked back onto the sand. With a ferocious roar, he leapt forward, sword raised high. Her eyes widened behind her mask, and her lips twisted. Waine’s strike bit deeply into nothing but earth and illusory butterflies which fluttered lazily away.

“Do you remember nothing?” The mesmer’s voice was surrounding him again, and his gaze blurred.

“Get out of my head!” he snarled, channeling magic through the sword. “I’ll kill you with your own blade!”

“It wasn’t mine,” she whispered. Switching to a staff, she blinked through the arena in flashes of blinding light, leaving illusory clones behind her. As one, they hurled orbs of chaos magic at him, confusing, chilling and poisoning him with their whirling energies. With a cry of frustration, he charged another strike and sent a wave of magic through the sword, knocking the clones back. They flickered unsteadily before standing and rushing at him, brandishing their blades. He grinned – how could that stupid woman think that those would fool him? His mouth dropped into an _O_ of shock as the clones, mere millimeters from his skin, shattered, their psychic resonance biting into him like jagged glass.

“Did you bring your arrows, Waine?” Llumin’s voice broke through the ringing in his ears, but when he looked up at her, he saw someone else.

   His streaming eyes bulged with terror. “No, it can’t be. I saw you…I saw you die!” He hurled lightning from the blade, desperate to drive the specter back. It merely flashed elsewhere, continuing its unrelenting march toward him. He saw his mentor’s kind face tilted toward him, his eyes filled with bittersweet disappointment. “Get away, Riannoc!”

“Give the sword back, Waine. It never was yours,” his mentor intoned.  The human’s hands trembled, and his knuckles, white against the blade, cracked in tension.

“No! I left you to die!” he hissed, gulping loudly. “I left you to die and I would do it again if I had to!” He raised the blade in a savage cut, bringing it down with the intention of cleaving his opponent in two – rules be cursed, this ghost would stay dead! To his horror, Riannoc had parried the strike, the swords ringing against each other with a strange, silvery peal.

“Your grip still needs work,” he said quietly.

Time seemed to slow as Waine watched the image of his mentor counter his every blow, Llumin’s spectral form flashing behind it like a shadow-puppet. As he shifted his stance, his foot slipped in the sand, and he collapsed on the ground. The ghost of Riannoc smiled sadly before disappearing, leaving only the mesmer’s harlequin mask in its place.

“He would have forgiven you,” she whispered. She readjusted the grip on her sword. “But this blade now must go back.” The pommel came crashing down hard on his forehead, sending his consciousness falling towards oblivion. The last thing he saw before his eyes fluttered shut was the sylvari reaching down and taking Caladbolg from his grasp before she quietly ascended the stairs and left him, unconscious, in the bloodied sand of the arena.

 

Llumin had barely stepped back onto solid ground before Myrie leapt over and gave her a hearty pat on the back.

“Well done!” she crowed. “We knew you could do it!”

“Myrie, give her some space; she just finished a battle, and I’m sure that she doesn’t need any more whacks – friendly or not – just now.”

The sylvari coughed, blinking tears from her eyes. “I’ll be fine,” she said, clearing her throat. “Ah, just a few bruises and bumps.”

“He did hit you rather hard, didn’t he?” Elmfrond mused, peering closely at her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix,” she demurred, brushing his concerns aside. “For now, we’ve got to get this back home.”

“How does it feel?” Elmfrond’s wide eyes were fixed upon the glowing Caladbolg. “Holding it, that is. Does it feel like energy or hope or…?”

She nodded absently, running a hand down the smooth, warm side of the thorn. “It feels like all of those things. Like a new dawn,” she nodded. “As though my wounds are already healing.”

“The Pale Tree’s power really does flow through it, then, doesn’t it?”

“You saw how Waine used it, didn’t you?” Myrie arched an eyebrow at the other thief. “Even if I don’t understand it all, there’s no doubt that Caladbolg really is something.” She turned back to Llumin as they started walking towards the asura gates. “Do you plan on giving something that powerful back to the Pale Tree? Who knows who’ll have it next – or what they’ll do with it?”

  Llumin stowed the blade.  “I have full faith in the Pale Mother’s wisdom. I’m sure that whoever she entrusts it to will use it with honor and integrity.”

“Speaking of that,” Selana said, casting the mesmer a sidelong glance, “I’m sure that I saw Waine try killing you more than once, despite the pit rules.”

Myrie snorted. “Highborn, if there’s one thing you need to know, pit rules are really more of a formality than something enforced. It’s all part of the sport.”

“So he really would have killed me,” Llumin murmured. Her eyes were wide, despite her calm tone.

“Hey, we would’ve stopped him. We got your back,” Myrie grinned.

“I’m sure right now her back wants a nice rest and possibly a soak. Isn’t that right?”

The mesmer nodded wearily. Elmfrond smiled. “Well, then, let’s head home and finish putting this ordeal to rest.”


	65. Arc 3, Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caladbolg is given to a new owner.

 

Nettle had watched them arrive back at the Grove with a small smile of satisfaction. The plan had gone off quite well; her disguise was perfect, and no one had suspected her involvement in the match – after all, who would have paid attention to a shy bartender? The pale woman wiped her lips, removing the last traces of blood as she slipped behind the group. She tapped Selana on the shoulder.

“If you wanted to let me know you were there, you merely needed to whisper it,” the elementalist said evenly, pausing to let the rest of the group walk ahead of her. “What do you want?”

“So much for a warm welcome,” the necromancer sighed. She peered around the noblewoman’s shoulder, watching the rest of them wait patiently by the elevator for Selana’s return. “I merely wanted to congratulate Llumin on her victory over Waine and on her return of Caladbolg.”

The human’s lips thinned into a line. “No, you didn’t; otherwise you would have spoken to her directly.”

Nettle chuckled. “Perceptive as always. Let me ask you this – did Waine seem a bit off when he was battling her?”

“I wouldn’t know his regular fighting style, but he did seem distressed,” she noted. Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

The sylvari smiled as she patted the human’s shoulder. “Just let Llumin enjoy her victory; after all, she may be upset if she knew her opponent was not in top form.”

  The human grabbed the necromancer’s arm, preventing her from walking away.  “I thought we were ordered to not interfere with the Vigil’s plan.” Selana’s voice was like an icy current.

 _”You_ were ordered to not interfere,” Nettle replied flatly.  She twisted out of Selana’s grasp. “I, on the other hand, was given express permission to ensure that your mission was a success by any means possible short of outright murder.”

“So you drugged him.”

Her smile was cold. “No one suspected a thing. It merely made him more responsive towards Llumin’s illusions and his own buried guilt.”

“What did you do after the match, then? Keeping him alive would have been a loose end for you.”

The necromancer’s eyes glowed in the dim light of the canopy. “What do you think?”

There was a terse pause.

“You still have blood on your fingers,” the elementalist muttered. Nettle looked down at her hands with a slight hint of surprise.

“So I do,” she said cheerily. She popped one into her mouth. “Now, if what I’ve heard is true, Caladbolg is about to be carried to the upper bower with my dear mother. I will admit I’m curious to see how this whole reunion carries out.” She tilted her head towards the rest of the group with a smile. “Shall we continue?”

 

The air inside the upper bower was filled with a reverent glow. Llumin stepped towards the Pale Tree’s avatar and knelt, holding forth Caladbolg. The golden woman bade her to rise, gently taking the sword as she did so.

“You have done well, my child,” she said, her low voice soothing the mesmer’s aching body as much as any rest. “Caladbolg is once more where it belongs, and my son’s spirit can finally be at peace.”

“It was an honor, Mother,” Llumin replied, standing with her head bowed. “I am glad that I could do my part.”

“The road ahead of you is still fraught with dangers and trials, though this will certainly help you in your Hunt. Caladbolg was made solely to purge the land of the dragons’ corruption; therefore, the one to wield it next must have the same goal in mind.” She turned her head towards another hole in the floor, from which another elevator had arisen. Trahearne stepped from the pod into the bower, his breathing slightly labored. Joining the group by the Pale Tree, he quickly bowed.

“Is it true, Mother? Has Caladbolg been returned?”

A strange look of clarity flashed over the avatar’s face; but with a mere smile, it vanished. “It has, my son. Know now that Riannoc is truly at rest; no longer should we worry about his death.”

“He was a brave warrior.” The Firstborn’s voice was low, though with sorrow, relief, or repressed joy, no one could tell. “I am glad that his sword has been brought back.”

“Yes, but it still lacks one thing.” The golden woman’s eyes were kind as she gazed upon the Firstborn’s confused face. “It needs one who can wield it – one whose Hunt is to cleanse the land of its corruption.”

Trahearne stepped back, eyes wide. “Mother, while I appreciate your confidence, such a task would be impossible without an army to fight back the dragon’s spawn.”

 “Well, since I’m called to kill the dragon, I’m sure I could help you find an army of some sort,” Llumin said.  “You wouldn’t need to command one, but we would need someone to marshal it if it were to exist.”

 

 “Yeah,” Myrie said, removing her hand from beneath her chin, “and how long have you been studying Orr? From what I’ve heard even in the Vigil, you are a walking encyclopedia of ancient and draconic knowledge. You’re the only one who knows the rituals needed to – in theory – restore the land.”

“I don’t even know if it could succeed!” He took a step back, as if considering descending to the lower edges of the Grove and dashing off before any more was said.

“No one has ever _tried_ before, Trahearne,” Llumin said. Her voice was edged with frustration. “You are the only one who has a possibility for Orr beyond that of a desolate wasteland.  With all due respect, on behalf of Tyria and of its races, you are a coward to keep running from your duty. Quit running away from what you know, turn around, and face it head-on! You will not be alone. I can rally some listening ears in the Priory, and my friends could help to gather support from their Orders.”

“The sprout has a point, Firstborn.  I could restrain you forcefully, but that might cause you to either go into shock or outright refusal,” Nettle added, shrugging. “You may be the most powerful necromancer of our age, and you know as well as I that your Wyld Hunt will only continue to torment you if you ignore it.”

His gaze narrowed at her words. “Are you threatening me?”

“Consider it a forceful encouragement for the betterment of the world.”

“Mother’s boughs, be silent!” Llumin snapped. Her tone softened as she turned from the Nettle back to the first of her kind. “Trahearne, I have heard the whispers. The rumors and insults which say that your task is impossible; that your mind is cracked by its Hunt. You are not just a ‘useless scholar studying a dead land’ – you are a man who sees hope where others would have given up. That, Trahearne, is an honor to your name. Don’t give up.  Please.” 

“I…”  For a few seconds, the green-skinned necromancer was still. He raised his amber gaze to the Pale Tree.  “Must I do this, Mother?” he asked, his voice thick with uncertainty. “Must I take up Caladbolg and go to Orr?”

“You can and you shall,” she said firmly. “Trahearne, Tyria needs you. Whether or not you are willing to acknowledge it, this is your destiny. Go with Llumin and her companions; the threads of fate twist and pull, but if you follow this cord, you will surely strike down the dragon of Orr. It will not be without its hardships, but as the Tablet says, ‘Hard ground makes strong roots.’ Be forewarned; the dragon will surely attempt to destroy your forces and its threat before they leave for its land; even now, unrest stirs in your orders,” the Tree declared. “Go back and seek out their information. I fear something massive is about to occur, and you will all be needed.”

As if in confirmation, a sharp cracking noise broke through the air.  The noise came from a rustling cocoon of vines and leaves. With a final, ferocious rip, a red-leaved hand burst from its shell and tore off the rest of the papery husk. A familiar form gasped, clutched, and stumbled onto the lush floor of the upper bower before raising a glinting green gaze and glowering at all gathered.

They, for their part, remained dumbfounded as the fiery sylvari ran her tongue over her lips, opened her mouth, and rasped, “Roots and thorns, I’m _sober!_ Which one of you lot let this ‘appen?”

 


	66. Arc 3, Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrie and Sylfia go on mission with Forgal Kernsson and discover something sinister beneath the sewers of Lion's Arch.

 

Shortly after emerging from her cocoon, Sylfia lay on the ground and was swarmed by menders and healers who checked and rechecked that she was, indeed, healed, and that her vitals were stable. After enduring the well-meaning poking and prodding for all of ten seconds, the red warrior shooed them off and demanded a summary of what had gone on while she was out of consciousness. When Llumin explained that Caladbolg had been returned, her eyebrows shot up.

“You mean, _the_ Caladbolg? The one that Mother made?”

“That’s the only one I’m aware of. How do you feel?”

“Never mind how I feel. Where is it?” When her eyes lit upon an uncomfortable-looking Trahearne, a look of shock swept over her face. “Roots and thorns,” she swore, a grin slowly creeping up her features, “so I wasn’t hearing things. It really did fall to you, didn’t it?”

“I didn’t ask for it,” he said defensively, still looking as if he was trying to process the whole ordeal.

“No, you didn’t. I remember hearing you protest being given that sword, even though it’ll ’elp with your Hunt,” Sylfia’s smile grew wider. “But you know what? It’s happened. Either you take up Caladbolg and work towards finishin’ it, or you can _sit_ here in denial, surrounded by your books until the Dragon itself comes and eats us all.” She staggered to her feet and gave him a firm stare. “Trust me; you can only run from your fears so long.”

“How much could you hear while you were in there?” Myrie asked. Although she had initially protested, the warrior finally gave a grunt of thanks as the shorter woman helped steady her.

“I ‘eard enough,” she said, rotating her arm. “And I think Mum’s right; while I was out of it, I was in closer connection with the Dream.  I saw you there, Trahearne, in the future or something. Like it or not, you _will_ go to Orr. You won’t be alone, which is good, but….” She pursed her lips. “You know what, I’m not sure I should be saying too much. Don’t want to ruin any chances of that future I saw happening, so Oi’m just gonna keep my mouth shut for now.” She glanced over at the Pale Tree. “And what you had been saying about the orders is true; I have a feeling that something’s headed our way. Myrie, you and I should ‘ead back to the Vigil. Something tells me that Fort Concordia was just the beginning.”

 

The Vigil’s headquarters were a massive military fortress. Although the Priory certainly had their defensive points, it could not boast the armaments which dotted the Vigil’s sturdy, reinforced walls, nor the ringing of air have out with the shouts of training regiments and the hissing of cooled steel as the fortress continued its armaments and weapons-crafting.

“Been a while since I’ve been here,” Myrie noted, pulling her shoulder back to dodge a young recruit as he ran by. “I forgot how busy it is.”

“You’ve been spoiled by trav’ling with Selana and krewe, Oi think,” Sylfia chuckled. “Now you’ve got to get used to the din of battle again.”

“Oh, we had our fair share of fights,” Myrie replied, nodding at a soldier who smiled in greeting. “And I’m sure you won’t be needing any rest after that nice nap you took.”

The sylvari’s face soured, and her eyes glittered. “Lis’en, you try being burned alive – for what is the _second_ time in your life, I might add – and not be sent inter’ a coma. Oi would’ve much rather been out smashing faces with you lot than wrapped up in those vines for however long it was.” Her tone turned accusatory. “And Oi ‘eard you went to Hoelbrak and didn’t even get me a drink!”

“To be fair, we didn’t know if you were even going to survive at that point,” Myrie huffed. “Say nothing about you being functional past a vegetative state.”

The warrior stopped walking and turned to stare down at the thief. “Oi want you to think about what you said very, _very_ slowly,” she drawled. Myrie’s neck prickled at the smile she wore; it resembled Nettle’s too much for her liking.

“Didn’t mean it as an insult,” she muttered.  “Sorry.”

The warrior waved her hand dismissively. “You can repay me in ale when we get to the recreational room.” Her face brightened. “Or Blood Legion whiskey! Tha’s the good stuff.”

  Myrie shook her head.  “I thought you said that norn ales were the best.”

“If it’s in my mug or in my mouth, that is the most won’erful brew you can get,” Sylfia declared.  She swaggered towards a door in the upper level of the fort and held it open. Myrie laughed as she walked inside.

“Sorry, but I value what little funds I have left; if you want a drink, buy it yourself.”

Sylfia chuckled as she closed the door. “Cheapskate.”

 

“Attention, soldiers!” The commanding bark of General Almorra Soulkeeper banished any further conversation once the door had been shut. “Although I know you would love to dwell on the pleasantries, as you know, war is anything but. The recent return of Calabolg to the Pale Tree was a stunning accomplishment. And I believe we have you, Crusader Ward, to thank for that, at least in part. Although I still don’t know why you didn’t decide to fight Waine yourself instead of allowing a Priory Magister into the field…”

“It was her responsibility. The sylvari’s connection to the sword is stronger than ours; Llumin seemed to be the better candidate of the two of us.”

“Hrm.” The old charr narrowed her eyes.  The dust-colored fur on her face bristled by the short horns on her chin and jaw. “You acted with honor, recruit. I suppose that will excuse your behavior for now.”

Myrie bowed her head in acknowledgement. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“You can thank me if you can help with finding our missing contact,” the general growled. She spread clawed hands over a marred map.  “We had been having him keep an eye on the channels below Lion’s Arch, but we haven’t heard from him in several weeks. We are sending you and Sylfia with Warmaster Forgal Kernsson to find out what has happened to him. You will be allowed two days’ rest beforehand. After that, pack your gear and head out. Understood?”

The sylvari and human saluted. “Yes, ma’am!”

 

 

Forgal Kernsson was an old, tough, scar-laden, muscle-bound norn who had little to no patience for backtalking, fooling around, or uncalculated risks. Naturally, the towering, cunning warrior believed that the short, impulsive human and the currently-sober sylvari were the least-suited individuals for a reconnaissance job.

“Listen here, you punks,” he growled, “although I’m sure you’ve been filled in on the basics of the situation, what you are unaware of is the tactical location.”

“It’s just Lion’s Arch,” Myrie tossed her pack over her shoulders. “It can’t be too bad, can it?”

He ignored the thief’s carefree question easily as he buckled on his greaves and finished swiping a whetstone against his sword. Having ensured the blade’s sharpness was satisfactory, he secured it in its sheath next to an ornately-carved warhorn.

“What we are about to explore are the canals and sewers _below_ the city, where a co-operation of Lionguard and Vigil work to ensure that not even a single undead _shrimp_ gets past the grates. Contrary to the myths, there are no giant goldfish down there, although you may find the occasional skritt or ooze.”

“We can deal with those,” Sylfia grunted, testing her hammer’s weight. Tensing her arms, she rammed the stone head into a nearby dummy, sending sawdust and broken pieces of hay fluttering into the air. “Still got it,” she muttered triumphantly.

Forgal’s nose twitched as a fragment of straw landed in his beard’s gray moustache.

“This is not a mission to be taken lightly,” he growled. “An entire squadron of Lionguard and Vigil have gone missing in the past couple of weeks trying to find out what happened to our contact, and it seems as though he failed to escape whatever danger befell the rest of his group. Although skritt have been the reason behind the disappearance of maybe one or two unfortunate civilians, to lose as many people as we have in such a short amount of time points to a larger, more serious threat. We are to find and destroy whatever has been causing this to happen.”

“We’ve taken on Nightmare Court and a bunch of other baddies before.  How hard could it be?” Myrie’s gaze flicked from her pistol’s sights to that of the norn warrior. Forgal glowered down at her with a cynical smile on his weathered face.

“Oh, you’ll see, runt. You’ll see.”

 

The canals leading into the sewers were surprisingly-spacious. Even Forgal, though he towered over both Sylfia and Myrie, had a few inches of headspace between his silver head and the dripping stone ceiling.

“What did I just step in?” Myrie asked uneasily.

“Probably bat droppings,” the norn replied, a hint of a chuckle at the edge of his voice. “Careful; they like to dive at humans best.”

Myrie gave him a sullen glare as she continued walking, and scuffed her boot against the damp, worn bricks underfoot. A thin, murky stream flowed at the canal’s lowest point, dribbling in increasing depth and stench as the group traveled on.

“This is disgusting,” she muttered, swallowing her unease as a large rat skittered into the shadows nearby.

“You’re telling me that you’ve fought Risen, but a single rat unnerves you?” Forgal laughed. “You’re a strange one, Recruit.”

Sylfia drove her hammer through an attacking ooze which had slurped up from the ground below, sending red, gelatinous globs of the creature smacking onto the wet stone in front of them. “Wot’s truly disgustin’ are these things,” she grimaced. “Thinkin’ gunk? I’ll pass.”

Something glittered ahead; Myrie thought it seemed a bit too humanoid to be another ooze. The old norn noticed it as well.

“Maybe that’s one of the survivors,” Myrie murmured. She switched to her daggers and crouched, preparing to run.

Forgal’s eyes narrowed. “Hold on, Recruit; we can’t charge in – ”

Yet Myrie had already dashed ahead, her rapid footfalls echoing in splashes behind her. The norn and sylvari were left behind; the former sputtered in irritation while the second only chuckled.

“I was afraid she would’ve changed while I was out of it,” Sylfia grinned, continuing her stride forward. “Glad ‘at’s not the case.” She peered ahead to where the thief was barreling. “Oi, watch ou – !””

The warrior’s message of caution was swallowed by the sounds of several large, ominously-glowing oozes squelching up from the sewer floor. Myrie barely dodged one of the creature’s lunges and used her momentum to push of a wall, kick her heel into its “head”, and splatter gelatinous material across the stone surrounding them.

“This is unusual,” Forgal growled.  He had caught up to the thief and had sliced an ooze’s main body into several pieces with his sword. “Oozes usually don’t congregate unless there are high concentrations of magic or garbage they can eat. And since these ones seem particularly vicious, it’s reasonable to think that there’s lots of both.”

Myrie gave a grunt of agreement as she fired a shot into a nearby ooze. However, the creature dodged the shot by slurping down into the tiles and squelching towards Sylfia instead. The warrior barely leapt away from the ricocheting bullet in time, firing a piercing glare at the thief as she brought an armored boot splotching through the glob. “Wotch it in ‘ere, fleshy! This ain’t Divinity’s Reach with its open streets!”

“Noted!” Myrie yelped, leaping over an ooze’s sticky swipe.

“I’ve got this one,” Forgal bellowed, plunging his blade through the gelatinous mass. With a strangely painful-sounding squeal, the creature bubbled and popped into a foul-looking yet otherwise harmless puddle. Myrie’s gaze returned to the sewer's path below, and her stomach took another somersault.

“Do you see what I see?” she asked queasily. A half-submerged form bobbed sluggishly in the  water, followed by another two leading further down the pipe.

“That explains the ooze concentration,” Sylfia grimaced. “Garbage indeed; these things have been feeding on corpses.”

“And the trail leads deeper into the grates,” Forgal growled.  He knelt and inspected one of them. “These markings on the bodies don’t look like they were caused by oozes, so whatever killed them must be below us in the waterways.” He sheathed his weapon, pulled an airbreather over his mouth and nose, and walked towards a dropoff point that led towards the oceanway before diving beneath its swaying waters. Sylfia wrinkled her nose in his direction before pulling on her mask and following suit. Myrie was the last to dive, and as she did so, her fingers drifted to Quinn’s ring by her neck. Whatever was down there, she felt as though she could use any protection available. With each stroke of her legs, the lights from aboveground faded, and an eerie glow from beneath grew.

 

There were jellyfish in the sewers. Myrie would never have expected to see those boneless creatures in the city. However, her surprise was quickly replaced with horror at how quickly the eerie animals, as if sensing her presence, pumped their bell-like bodies and lashed their tentacles towards her.

“Do they always act like this?” she yelped, her voice distorted by the aquabreather. Forgal gave a grunt as he slashed at a dodging animal.

“Hardly,” he replied. “Usually the jellies of Lion’s Arch are pretty calm.”

“Well, something’s got them worked up!”

From a few strokes down, Sylfia’s voice bubbled up. “I think I may have an idea of what that is.” The others swam to her side.  She gestured further down towards a sand-floored cave of black stone in the system. A green glow came from within. “You see that?” she whispered, her raspy voice almost inaudible.

Behind his mask, Forgal’s eyes narrowed. “Recruits, this is no longer a search-and-rescue. Stay close behind, and try to be quiet.”

“There’s more bodies down here,” Myrie whispered softly, unease pricking the back of her neck.

“It looks like these Lionguard were dragged down here…” Sylfia hissed.  She grimaced behind her mask as a sodden corpse bobbed in the murky waters by her shoulder. She pulled out a harpoon gun. “Whatever’s in there is definitely no goldfish.”

The thief nodded mutely. Her gaze lingered on one of the mangled bodies as she swam by it, its twisted face and bloated skin staring at her like a horror-show mask. She shuddered and continued following Forgal towards the cavern. Readying her spear, she glided behind the warriors. A low, gurgling hiss came from within the cave. Forgal beckoned to Sylfia, who nodded and followed him inside. Before the sylvari could drift further, he whipped a hand out, eyes bulging.

“Get back!”

With a skull-shaking bellow, the long-toothed maw of an undead drake surged out of the cavern’s entrance. Its rotten teeth crunched on a nearby stone instead of the sylvari that would have drifted into its jaws. Still hissing, the green, glowing monstrosity lashed its bony tail and slashed out. Propelled backwards by the force of her harpoon's shots, Myrie nearly didn’t notice when something latched onto her ankle. With a cry of surprise, she whirled around to see that the bodies of the slain Lionguard and Vigil were stirring – not with regained consciousness, but with a fierce, blind rage.

“They’ve been turned! Watch out!” Myrie shouted, the realization freezing her blood.

Sylfia drove her spear into the drake’s side, releasing a dark cloud of rotten blood. The creature shrieked in rage, swatting the fiery warrior into the rocky walls. She gave a grunt of pain.

“Don’ worry ’bout me! I can’t be turned; fight for yourselves!”

“No can do, Recruit,” Forgal bellowed, impaling an undead Lionguard through her sodden skull. “We Vigil fight and die together!”

 

The water seethed and boiled with the frenzied combat below.  There was no way the Vigil could let the Risen aboveground. With aching bones and ragged lungs, they desperately fought against their resurrected foes. They were at a disadvantage; the undead needed no waterbreathers to fight, and their reanimated bodies registered neither pain nor exhaustion. Fighting against the Risen in their own territory was like fighting the waves underwater. Yet with a desperate, frenzied determination, the warriors and thief managed to pike enough rotten heads and burst enough broken organs to ensure that their corrupted allies finally stayed dead, and they only prayed that their spirits were at rest from their tormented state. With its minions slain at last, the drake fell, and as it gave one last, burbling cry, a putrid cloud of poison escaped its maw, sullying the water with its inky blackness. The companions quickly swam away from the carnage below, dodging severed, still limbs and detached heads as they sought still waters.

“That was no normal sortie,” Myrie panted, clasping a hand over her arm as she removed her waterbreather and clambered back onto the foul-smelling stones. “What kind of undead was that?”

“I’ve no clue.” Sylfia grit her teeth as she stowed her weapon.  Forgal wrung water from his silver hair.

“That was a scouting party,” the norn said grimly, his voice brittle. “Zhaitan only sends those when it’s planning a major attack. Fort Concordia was just a test; if it can take Lion’s Arch, it won’t be so easy for us to send out reinforcements to its targets.”

Myrie’s stomach lurched. “So what you’re saying is…”

The norn’s scowl deepened. “We need to warn the Lionguard at Claw Island. Zhaitan is going to attack this city, and soon.”


	67. Arc 3, Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Knights of Gryphon rejoin at Claw Island.

 

Although they had expected to see the usual crew of Lionguard and its patrols, when the Vigil approached the gates of Claw Island’s high stone fortress, they saw some familiar faces.

“Selana!” Myrie shouted, a grin splitting her face. “It’s been a while!”  She jogged towards the elementalist and gave her a hug.

“It has, hasn’t it?” the elementalist smiled.  She straightened, having nearly bent double for the embrace.  “I trust that you’ve been keeping Sylfia out of trouble?”

“Not at all,” the sylvari slurred, beaming blearily.  She leaned heavily on her hammer’s handle. “Jus’ got drunk again. Been a while, so Oi’m a bit more watery on my legs, but Oi’ll do.”

Forgal failed to squash the smirk quivering onto his whiskered face. “General Almorra was less than pleased to see that your companion here had drunk her finest, oldest, and most expensive bottle of brandy to its dregs. Frankly, I’m impressed she’s still standing.”

“Oi’ve handled more!”

“I’m _saying_ that I’m impressed Almorra didn’t kick you off the fortress wall.”

Sylfia blinked. “Fair ‘nough.”

Nettle stalked up the path to the gates, her gaze briefly widening. “I was unaware that the warning of a single island required a welcoming party,” she said. “Either way, there are more coming.”

“How many people are going to be here?” Khimma’s voice came from down below, and Myrie jumped aside to avoid stepping on her tiny silver golem, which had whirred too close to her boots for comfort. “Klixx and I were under the impression that this was a Priory mission!”

“Khimma, you and I have been holed up in a magic-scented, highly-explosive test area for the past several days.” He rolled his eyes.  “If you really thought we’d be the only ones here, I suppose it means that those fumes finally got to your head.”

“They’d get to yours, too,” she retorted, sticking out her tongue.

“Please, there’s no need to argue,” Llumin’s voice echoed across the courtyard. With a silvery, ringing echo, the sylvari appeared among the growing group. “We are all here to help, and from what Trahearne has told me, there is quite a bit of trouble to share.”

“She’s right.” Myrie’s head whipped around, and her gaze went from confusion to joy before settling on horror.

 “Gryphon! What did you do to your _hair?”_

The mesmer rolled his eyes. “‘Nice to see you, Gryphon. Thank you for taking care of my parents and making sure Nettle hasn’t eaten us all while you were gone.’ The first thing you mention is my hair?” He let out a _whooph_ as the tiny thief rocketed into his abdomen with a hug.

“Yes, yes, all of that and thank you,” she said, stepping back and grinning. “But seriously, what did you do to it? It looks like someone took a rust-colored squid and draped it on your head!”

“I take it you don’t like it?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. Myrie’s face scrunched.

“No,” she replied flatly. “And please don’t take hair advice from the asura ever again.”  Her eyes narrowed.  “What was that about Nettle not eating us…?”

 “I see that we have quite a group here,” a bemused voice interrupted. Llumin smiled.

“Trahearne! I was beginning to wonder if you’d show up!”

The necromancer gave a smile. “I did say that I would come, didn’t I? A Firstborn is always true to his promise.”

Myrie glanced at Selana, whose gaze had darkened at his appearance. “What’s up?” she asked, sliding next to her. “Has Llumin remembered —?”

“No.” The elementalist’s voice was icy. “Llumin remembers nothing about her past or birth. Although her interest in human culture has increased since Nettle interfered with her, she still sees me as nothing more than an acquaintance.”

Myrie gave her a sympathetic smile. “Give it time. You magic-users seem to have a weird way of sorting things out.”

She was silent for a moment.  Her jaw shifted.  “Trahearne has been helping her with her studies,” she said stiffly.

Myrie looked at her suspiciously. “And?”

Selana’s gaze bored into the back of his head. “They seem to have gotten close. I don’t like it. Who does he think he is?”  A small flame flickered around her clenched fist.  Myrie’s stomach jumped.

“Whoa, Selana, calm down – ”

“Trahearne is in no way worthy of my sister,” Selana hissed, ignoring the shorter woman with astounding efficiency. “I don’t care how well they get along, if that pretentious _cabbage_ tries anything…”

“I think you’re over-reacting,” Myrie whispered frantically, gripping onto the taller woman’s wrist and motioning for her to keep her voice down. “They’re both Dusk blooms, they’re both studying dragons; just because they work together doesn’t necessarily mean anything...”  
  Llumin was watching him speak with awestruck fascination.  Myrie winced and sincerely hoped for his sake that Selana didn’t notice.   
The elementalist’s icy glare slid from the pair to Myrie, who only said “ah” and cleared her throat.

 “I don’t care how long they’ve known each other, or what the Pale Tree or that sword say,” Selana said coldly.  She removed her wrist from the thief’s grasp.   “She deserves someone who knows who he is and who can protect her; not some holed-up, whiffling coward who still doubts his abilities and duty. Look at him; he hardly even notices her!”

“I thought you just said that you didn’t _want_ him to notice!” Myrie rolled her eyes.  “Selana, contrary to what that noble-minded disposition of yours may think, you don’t _know_ everything. Llumin is hardly a pushover.  She’s been through a lot, and I doubt that she’ll be some ‘damsel in distress.’ If she sees something in him, maybe it’s for his own good.  She’ll turn out all right.  After all,” she said, nudging the taller woman, “she’s related to you.”


	68. Arc 3, Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Knights of Gryphon attempt to warn the unflappable Watch Commander Talon of Zhaitan's impending attack with little success.

_“What_ is going on here?” A brown-furred, gold-armored charr stalked towards the group, glowering fiercely. “I do hope you all aren’t _tourists._ If you’ve nothing better to do, move along; we Lionguard must maintain constant vigilance against the dragon’s attacks.”

“We’re not tourists,” Khimma said, although her voice sounded slightly defensive. The warrior raised an eyebrow, several of his overhanging fangs shining in the light of the setting sun.

“Then what are you doing here, sharkrat? You and your companions are interfering with our training drills.”

Khimma’s jaw dropped. “Sharkrat?” she shrieked.  The SHU-TY by her feet gave a high-pitched, aggressive whine. Klixx was torn between kicking it and restraining her. “You incoherent, skritt-brained bookah, I could kill you with my brain! Why don’t you – ”

Myrie stepped forward to de-escalate the situation. Yet before she could do or say anything, Gryphon sidestepped her and extended his hand.

“Lord Gryphon Radwing,” he declared, shaking the charr’s clawed paw. “It is an honor to meet you, Commander Talon.”

The charr blinked in confusion before his chest visibly puffed. “Why, yes, I’m sure it is. I’ve been commanding this post for nearly twenty years now. Claw Island has stood firm for nearly a century against any and all attacks under my very capable hand.”

“It’s about to stand significantly less-firm,” Selana stated coldly, stepping aside Gryphon. “Agents in the Order of Whispers have noticed a fair-sized scouting party hidden below the hideaway in the Captain’s Corridor bar.”

“Hideaway? What — ?”

“There’s more,” Llumin said, glancing at the elementalist and hesitating. “Seiran and I rescued one of our contacts from the dragon’s minons within another part of the city.”

“Well, one or two scouts can’t possibly be much of a hazard…”

“Commander Talon, this is no coincidence,” Forgal said, crossing his arms. “We Vigil found our own scouting party, as well.”

The charr paled under his fur. “Blood and gears,” he swore. His brow creased, and he shook his head. “No,” he said softly, then more loudly, “No. We _cannot_ let this island fall. Scouts be cursed, there is no way they can take this island. I will _not_ let almost one hundred years of defense be ruined by a few sodden corpses’ wanderings into the city.”  He turned and stalked away from them towards the fortress gate.

“Wanderings?” Llumin cried, eyes widening in rage and shock. She followed behind him at a brisk pace.  “You think these were all random _wanderings?_ Three scouts and their defensive parties suddenly show up in Lion’s Arch within mere days or even hours of each other. Even a simple student would be able to see – ”

“Claw Island will _not_ fall!” the charr roared, whirling on her. She stepped back in shock.  “We are fully reinforced and prepared for any attacks. Go check with my commanding officers on the walls and on the beaches.”  He crossed his arms. “You’ll see. We have nothing to fear.”

 

Nettle’s nose was in the air shortly after their meeting with the Lionguard in charge of the catapults, trebuchets, and cannonry; an asura who reassured them all that their significant firepower would drive any foe away.

“Some of these have helped keep up almost one hundred years of protection,” he declared proudly, patting a cannon as if it was a prizewinning racehorse. “There’s no way that Watch Commander Talon will let any dragon take that from him.”

“That’s what we’re concerned about,” Myrie muttered as she walked away. She glanced over at the pale necromancer, whose mouth was slightly ajar and whose nostrils were quivering. “Okay, I know you can be odd, but what on earth are you doing?”

Nettle’s tongue traced over her lips as she closed her mouth. “Tasting. There’s magic brewing here; rotten, old, and powerful.” Her eyes glittered unpleasantly. “I wonder what the blood of a dragon tastes like.”

“Well, don’t get eager,” the thief said uneasily, carefully putting some distance between herself and the sylvari. “We don’t even know if we’ll be able to take it out, much less acquire blood from it.” She gave her a quizzical look. “Why do you even _want_ to try tasting Zhaitan’s blood? That stuff’s probably disgusting.”

Nettle turned her round-eyed gaze on her. “Why not? There’s power in blood; old magics, history, vitality.” She smiled, sending chills down Myrie’s spine. “I _will_ taste the blood of dragons. I want that power.” She laughed at the thief’s horrified expression. “Oh, don’t worry; I can’t harm you or any of your allies. I’m still at Gryphon’s disposal.” At that, her lips twisted in disgust.

“How unfortunate,” Myrie said flatly. She blatantly ignored Nettle’s prickling glare at her back as she dashed down to the beaches.  Ever since her first meeting with the Pale Tree, the necromancer’s disposition had become more and more belligerent.  The unease that she was inspiring grew daily, and Myrie couldn’t help but think back to Gryphon’s offhand comment about her not eating them…

 

Selana seemed to be in a similar situation as Myrie and Nettle. Her blue gaze snapped with frustration as she struggled to keep her voice calm.

“Commander Mira,” she said evenly, “I have no doubt as to the prowess and skill of your forces; however, that is not what we are concerned with.”

Trahearne stood next to her; Myrie noticed with no small amount of shock that he managed to stand taller than the elementalist.  “Twenty-five years I have studied these creatures,” he said; his own voice was frayed.  “I can assure you that if there was ever a sign of impending attack, this is it. _Three_ scouting parties and their guards are nothing to dismiss. If you want to follow your leader to his death and doom the rest of the city, be my guest, but if you have any ideas of survival, I cannot recommend enough that you shore up what defenses you have and prepare to light the beacons.”

The Lionguard faltered for a moment; Myrie’s hopes rose. Then, like a doubting student dislodging a professor’s irritating question, she shook her head and returned his look. “Firstborn Trahearne, I understand your concern, and Lady Firestone, you must remember that this is not Divinity’s Reach. I know that novels about Orrian attacks sell quite well at the city, but this is the frontline. We have prepared for and encounter skirmishes with almost daily occurrence.”

Selana’s ivory skin grew somehow paler in insulted fury.  
“This won’t be a skirmish,” Llumin cried, “it will be a slaughter!”

“We have drills to continue,” Mira said coolly. “If you’re done pestering me, I ought to continue with my regiment.”

 

Gryphon rejoined them by the gate near the beach in the back of the fort’s courtyard. “How did it go?”

Selana stalked by him, her flaming hair blazing in the light of a setting sun. “The Lionguard are totally incompetent.”

“Overconfident is more like it,” Llumin said, sighing. She gave Selana an apologetic glance. “It was quite rude of her to assume that you’re just another secluded noble out for a romp.”

“I’m used to that by now,” the elementalist replied, inhaling slowly. “It’s the blatant dismissal of facts from not only three Orders, but also the foremost student of Orr, which irritates me so much. Are they so desperate to keep their perceived safety that they will sacrifice the city’s survival?”

Trahearne’s low voice slid into the conversation. “It’s not surprising. A century’s worth of security is a victory of its own; giving it up is tantamount to admitting that there is little hope against the Orrian Dragon.”

“But there _is_ hope,” Llumin declared, looking in turn at those around her. “The fact that we’ve seen the Dragon’s leaders and survived – the fact that we even were able to notice its oncoming attack before its arrival – those are worth something, aren’t they?”

Gryphon smiled. “Of course they are. And we’ll stand and fight even if the Lionguard have to take a few hits to snap out of their delusion.”

Myrie grinned. “Well, if they won’t prepare, then I recommend we get in our positions. We don’t know when – ”

“Undead at the beach!” a scout shouted. “We have Orrians swarming at the fronts!”

“That’s our cue,” Khimma said grimly, drawing her hammer. Klixx summoned his winds. “Let’s show those stubborn Lionguard what we can do!”

“Or how to die with honor,” Trahearne said coolly. Caladbolg gleamed in his hands. “Let’s move.”


	69. Arc 3, Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle of Claw Island begins in earnest.

 

Watch Commander Talon laughed as the adventurers returned from their quick skirmish on the beaches. “See,” he roared, “nothing to worry about!”

“It was a feint! They’re testing your skills,” Trahearne huffed, golden eyes glowing in the setting sun. Overhead, sickly yellow clouds whirled with an ashy miasma. He raised a hand and gestured.  “Look! Does this seem like a normal windstorm to you?”

“We’re on the _seafront_ ,” the charr snarled. “It will take more than a freak storm to convince me that there’s anything wrong.”

“Then you’d better prepare to come crying to us with apologies,” Khimma snapped, sharp teeth flashing. “Because there are more undead coming, and I don’t think I’d want to bet Lion’s Arch against your arrogant miscalculations!”

Klixx crossed his arms. “You have two elementalists here. Both are saying that this storm is unnatural. What does that say about your _own_ competence?”

The charr’s eyes bulged, and if the asura hadn’t taken that opportunity to dash off to the beach with Nettle, Myrie had little doubt that Talon would have thrown them out of the gates and into the ocean. “Lord Radwing, I do hope you’re prepared to rein in your companions!”

“With all due respect, Watch Commander,” he replied, though Myrie saw that he was struggling to squash a smirk, “if you’ve ever been around Khimma and Klixx, you’ll know that such a request is impossible.”

Talon’s tail thrashed. “Well, _make_ it possible! They’re unnerving my regiments!”

“If your overconfidence is so blinding,” Selana’s voice came from behind Myrie with the cold force of an icy current, “then your troops would be better taking their chances in the sea.”

“We have undead swim in all the time!”

“But it will be nothing like what is on its way,” Myrie snapped. “Can’t you see that?”

Talon growled, turning to Forgal. “Forgal! Do you really allow such talk in the Vigil?”

The norn crossed his arms. “We Vigil are trained to sight and slay threats; if they say there’s a threat – and one which is backed up by two other orders, to boot – then we are compelled by our oaths to see this out. We can apologize later.”

Myrie felt a surge of appreciation for the old warmaster. She didn’t have long to dwell on it; a scream from the cannonry drew the attention of all nearby.

“Sir! There are dead ships on the horizon! Everyone, brace yourselves; they’re firing on our – !”

A wave of bloated corpses descended from above, exploding in putrid clouds of poison over the parapets. The head cannoneer on duty watched in horror as his fellow Lionguard – those who had failed to move in time – fell to their knees, gasping and vomiting as the noxious fumes wound into their lungs and choked the life from their unsuspecting bodies.

 To his credit, Talon recovered quickly.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed. “Return fire on their ships!”

“Sir, they’ve taken out several of our trebuchets and cannons! We can try recovering, but the risk – ”

“To Mists with the risk!” He whirled around, facing the Knights of Gryphon. “You said you’re here to help? Well here’s your chance.” He thrust a finger at the walls. “Go help defend the trebuchets! And the rest of you head down to the beaches! Three of your members won’t be enough if there are undead ships at our necks!”

Trahearne’s face was grim. “I’ll head there.”

Llumin drew her staff. “I’ve got your back.”

The mesmer and necromancer ran off to join the asura and Nettle down at the beach.

 Selana glanced down at Myrie, who looked at Gryphon and Forgal before nodding. “Let’s go.”

 

Commander Mira was nowhere to be found. When Trahearne and Llumin arrived, they found the asura fighting back-to-back against pockets of Risen and Nettle closer to the front with the few Lionguard that remained standing.

“Where’d the commander go?” Trahearne barked. He sent a surge of power from Caladbolg. Llumin concentrated energy through her sword and leapt through its wave, leaving an illusion behind, driving her sword through the chest of an undead in front of her, and becoming briefly enveloped in an aura of light. She whirled around, parrying the descending hammer of an undead charr just in time to keep it from crushing her skull. Khimma gave a cry, and Klixx acted quickly, shooting a lightning bolt through its chest and sending the corpse shuddering and screeching to the dark-stained sand.

“Thanks,” Llumin panted. Klixx nodded, and Khimma hurtled through the air and pasted an undead grub into pulp.

“The commander was down at the beachfront last we saw,” the guardian said, rising. “She tried buying her troops some time…”

“Keep the rest of the Lionguard safe and start heading back towards the fort,” Llumin ordered. Even as she spoke, the water birthed more horrors. The sea of undead seemed endless. “We cannot possibly hope to fight this many undead – not now.” The asura nodded.

“You might not be able to get Nettle out of the fighting,” Klixx wheezed. Blood dribbled over one of his eyes, which was squeezed shut. “That insane woman is bound to get herself killed.”

“No sweat off of my back,” Khimma muttered. “Hold still; you’ve got a cut over your eye.”

“I’ll be fine; you work on getting the troops back here and I’ll work with the ones up front.”

“Just move,” Llumin snapped. “We’ll be heading down to the beaches to see if we can find Mira; you worry about the guards and your own skins.”

A glimmer of protective magic faded from Klixx’s eyes, which glowed with renewed fury. “You’ve got it; just remember, Scholar, that we have our own men along the beaches.”

“I’ll remember. Now go!”

 

Nettle was fighting with relentless fury at the beachfront. She moved and weaved through the undead like a thread of death itself; everything she touched died in agony, blood and curses stealing the life or semblance of life from those around her.

“Get back or get with us,” Llumin ordered. “The Risen are only growing in force. Where’s Mira?”

Nettle gave a grunt as she repositioned her grip on her dagger. “The human woman is as good as dead; her body fell by the sea.”

“And you left her?” Trahearne blasted another undead with his glowing blade; Nettle gave him a look of contempt.

“The humans live and die and are corrupted. What use is one more dead?”

His lips curled. “Get back and help the rest at the fort; you’re no use here.”

Her smile was cold, and she gave a mocking bow as she plunged her dagger into the rotten guts of an undead behind her. “As you wish, Firstborn,” she hissed. With Adam clutched firmly in her bone-white hands, she scythed a path back towards Fort Trinity.

Trahearne’s face was grim. “Mira still lives, though her life-force is weak.” He parried a Risen’s strike, and Llumin used the opportunity to let her sword blossom from its chest.

“Lead on,” she said.

“Just watch your back,” he answered. The undead burned and were painted across the seething sea.

 

Mira was facedown at the beach, surrounded by watchful Risen.

“They must’ve known we’d come for her,” Llumin grunted. She had switched to her staff and was leaping around, dodging the swiping claws and crushing blows of the Orrians in bursts of colorful illusion. A conjured warlock joined its sister phantasms and charged towards a brutish Risen charr, shattering in shards of butterflies sharp as knives.

“There’s an opening!” she shouted as it fell. “Take her and go!”

Trahearne swept in and scooped the unconscious Lionguard up in his arms. As he concentrated, leafy bandages sprouted from his arms to cocoon her. He started running back towards the fort, feet skiffing in the wet sand. Llumin continued her defense behind him, shattering illusions and slicing limbs as they started to return towards the building. As she retreated, her ankle caught on a piece of driftwood. She landed heavily with a cry of surprise. Trahearne stopped, half-turning.

“Llumin!”

“Go! Get back to the fort!” A risen asura snarled, turning towards her with sharp teeth dripping seafoam and blood. She readied her weapon and punched a gaping hole in its sodden skull, sending rotten brains splattering on the beachfront. She braced herself with her staff, standing unsteadily. As she glanced up through slit eyes, a hammer descended from above. Time seemed to slow as she raised her staff to parry.  She watched as her weapon splintered before its blow, sending sparks of magic fluttering through the air. She staggered back, switching to her sword and torch. An undead human roared, slicing  its brine-dripping sword through the air towards her stomach.

Her breath caught, yet as she closed her eyes to accept her fate, a dull blue mist solidified into a humanoid shape. _A ghost?_ The spectre turned back to her – no, he was looking over her – as he shouted.

“Dierdre,” it bellowed, eyes blazing. “Keep her safe! I’ll make sure they can’t get her.”

The female ghost nodded, hands enveloped in ghostly flame. Were these Ascalonians? No, they seemed too sane, too … _human_ to be like those maddened spectral shells. Llumin’s mind, no longer certain of reality, failed her, and she collapsed, unknowing, on the beach.


	70. Arc 3, Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin's past returns.

Mira was facedown at the beach, surrounded by watchful Risen.

“They must’ve known we’d come for her,” Llumin grunted. She had switched to her staff and was leaping around, dodging the swiping claws and crushing blows of the Orrians in bursts of colorful illusion. A conjured warlock joined its sister phantasms and charged towards a brutish Risen charr, shattering in shards of butterflies sharp as knives.

“There’s an opening!” she shouted as it fell. “Take her and go!”

Trahearne swept in and scooped the unconscious Lionguard up in his arms. As he concentrated, leafy bandages sprouted from his arms to cocoon her. He started running back towards the fort, feet skiffing in the wet sand. Llumin continued her defense, shattering illusions and slicing limbs as they started to return towards the building. As she retreated, her ankle caught on a piece of driftwood. She landed heavily with a cry of surprise. Trahearne stopped, half-turning.

“Valiant!”

“Go! Get back to the fort!” A risen asura snarled, turning towards her with sharp teeth dripping seafoam and blood. She readied her weapon and punched a gaping hole in its sodden skull, sending rotten brains splattering on the beachfront. She braced herself with her staff, standing unsteadily. As she glanced up through slit eyes, a hammer descended from above. Time seemed to slow as she raised her staff to parry.  She watched as her weapon splintered before its blow, sending sparks of magic fluttering through the air. She staggered back, switching to her sword and torch. An undead human roared, slicing  its brine-dripping sword through the air towards her stomach.

Her breath caught, yet as she closed her eyes to accept her fate, a dull blue mist solidified into a humanoid shape. _A ghost?_ The spectre – a man, from the looks of it – turned back to her – no, he was looking over her – as he shouted.

“Dierdre,” it bellowed, eyes blazing. “Keep her safe! I’ll make sure they can’t get her.”

The female ghost nodded, hands enveloped in ghostly flame. Were these Ascalonians? No, they seemed too sane, too … _human_ to be like those maddened spectral shells. Llumin’s mind, no longer certain of reality, failed her. She collapsed, unknowing, on the beach.

 

A gentle song caressed her mind. She was very young, and very different from how she remembered herself. Llumin blinked; her mind’s eye showed her an impossible scene.

 She was an infant – a human infant – with a family. A mother, beautiful and strong, and a father, protective and handsome. They seemed sad, though, inexplicably sad, as if she was dying. She _wasn’t_ dying, was she? Yet even as the thought passed through her mind, Llumin felt an echo of something in her chest; a tightness that spoke of ancient magics which grasped her heart and lungs with malice that promised only death and agony to herself and to those around her. Her infant self opened pale, pale lips and let out a feeble cry. Her mother hushed her soothingly and smoothed down wispy hair that floated over her fair skin like morning mist. Her father picked her up from her crib, an ornately-wrought mahogany piece, and began to sing again. It was his voice Llumin had heard  The words were clearer this time. She realized that it was a prayer to the gods for an impossible miracle, and an anthem of acceptance for the worst which loomed over them like a Reaper’s scythe.

“Slumber deep in dreamless sleep,” her father’s quavering tenor sang. “O innocent child, o’er you I’ll keep a vigilant watch throughout the night. I’ll watch, and set your fears to flight.” He gently rocked her before setting her in her mother’s arms. Llumin watched with a dawning sense of unease as the human woman smiled; her tearful face held a farewell.

“Upon awake, for Dwayna’s sake,” she sang. “O rested soul, Grenth shall not take, and with the final crack of dawn – ” The noblewoman’s voice caught as the infant in her arms raised a tiny hand to weakly hold onto her fingers. She bowed her head to the child, pressing a delicate kiss on its sickly head. Llumin’s fingers traced her own forehead as the woman finished her prayer. “And with the final crack of dawn, no fearful dreams to dwell upon.”

“Mama?” A young voice – a child’s voice – came from below. Llumin focused her gaze down from the image of the mother and baby to the new speaker. A head of fiery hair gleamed up at her. “Is Sissy going to be okay?”

“Selana, I thought you were in bed,” the woman said. She tried to clear her voice, but there was still a hint of unsteadiness. She handed the baby back to her husband and dabbed at the trails of tears still tracing down her cheeks. “Llumin will be fine. We were just singing her a lullaby.”

“She’s not been sleeping very well, has she?” Serious blue eyes peered up from a round, pale face, intense as the moon. Young Selana seemed far too new to the world to wear a gaze so grim. “Daddy, what’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” he murmured, setting the infant down. “Lord Radwing is coming tomorrow. He says there may be one last solution.”

“Dwayna bless her and Grenth guide her,” Lady Firestone whispered. “Now, is there something you’d like? A glass of water?”

The small head of fire nodded. “Can I give baby Llumin a goodnight kiss?” she asked shyly. Her eyes were wide with wonder at the life that struggled to hold on in its mahogany crib. “It might make her feel better.”

Arcon gave a low, sad laugh. “Sure, little Ember. Here.” He picked up the girl and bent her towards the restless infant, who stared up at her older sister with a wondering gaze.

“Goodnight, Llumin,” she whispered, giving her a kiss on her nose. The baby wrinkled its face. “Sleep well.”

“And now it’s time for little girls like you to be off to bed,” Dierdre said. She reached out and grabbed a small, painted wooden cup and held it towards her husband.

He shook his head. “Why don’t we let Selana try this time?” He gave his wife a meaningful look.

  Llumin knew this was an attempt to distract the child from… Her consciousness peered into the crib; even though the infant was resting, there was a very unsettling case of déjà vu that passed through her mind. _Her_ oncoming death. The thought was strange. She turned to focus back to the family in front of her. A shadow loomed in the light of the pale moon; the cup clacked to the floor, half-filled with elemental water that splashed darkly on the stone floor.

“There’s no time.”

“Gryphon, what – ?”

“Arcon, Dierdre, take Llumin and come with me. If we’re going to do this, we must act now. Leave Selana with Samuel.”

The girl stamped her feet and glared at the lord.  “No! I’m coming!”

“Selana – ” her father warned.

“She can come. But we must hurry to the Grove; the Pale Tree says that the moon will help us, but we must go and arrive there this hour. Come on; we have guards and Shining Blade outside to escort us safely. Captain Thackeray has assured me that there will be no chance of an ambush.”

 

Llumin’s consciousness retreated as her life flashed through her mind in a blur. The vines that wrapped around her frail body, the strange sleep that left her with a _new_ body, a new name – and not one memory of her sister, the only remaining family she knew she had. Consciousness fled her grasp like a hunted stag.

She could sleep no longer; Claw Island was at risk. She had been weak long enough. Finally, with a gasp, Llumin’s eyes snapped open. One word – a desperate cry for help, for hope, for confirmation – burst from her cracked lips.

“Selana!”

 

From atop the cannon wall, a glowing ball of flaming pitch was sent hurtling back into the Dead Ships. Gryphon’s blue gaze did not falter as he sent his deadly hail upon the increasing foes from  the trebuchets. Sylfia bashed back the oncoming hordes that marched towards him.  They showed little sign of slowing.

“Oi think they ain’t exactly gettin’ any fewer in number!” the sylvari barked, striking a grasping ghoul with enough force to send its sodden head flying from its body. “We really ought to consider a retreat! Light the beacons and whatnot!”

Selana’s grim smile was illuminated by the blazes which ignited the undead. “Try telling that to Talon.”

“Oh, Oi’ve got some very choice words for our furball-in-command,” the sylvari growled. She kicked another undead down the stairs, sending it crashing into its brethren. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed. “Did you ‘ear that? Sounded like a cry or somefin’.”

 Yet when she looked behind her to where the elementalist was, Sylfia found the human nowhere in sight. She stumbled over to the wall and glanced over. The noblewoman was enveloped in an electric haze as she raced down to the beach. The warrior ran a hand down her face; undead that had been milling about or walking towards the fortress slowly turned towards Selana as she ran. “Bloody fleshbag’s gonna get ‘erself killed…” Sylfia muttered. She shouldered her hammer.  “Gryphon! Oi’m headin’ down there to make sure Selana doesn’t get any idears of noble sacrifice!”

The cords of the trebuchet gave a low thrum as they fired another shot. “Go quickly!” he ordered. “Get her and get back to the fort!”

 

Selana was heedless of the grasping, snarling undead around her. With arcane fire and bolts of lightning, she raced down the beach. Her ears had not fooled her; the zephyrs had carried one word, one single whisper, across the chaotic field of battle.

“Llumin! Llumin, can you hear me?” Her voice was ragged with worry. She knew sylvari could not be corrupted if killed, but it was small comfort to the woman whose sister lay unmoving on the beach.  “Llumin!”

A feeble illusion flickered on the ground, and around its blurred lines, the graceful form of Llumin could be seen crumpled on the sand.

 “Oh, thank the Tree,” the mesmer whispered, laughing. “I thought you wouldn’t hear me.”

“The winds tell me things sometimes,” Selana replied. She knelt and concentrated, using what healing magic she knew to help the sylvari stand

“Selana, I think – ”

“Not now; we have to focus on getting back to the fort.”

The task was easier said than done; although it was nothing short of a miracle that had enabled Llumin’s revival, the Orrians were not so considerate as to allow for an unhindered return. “I hope you’re still prepared to fight,” Selana said, switching to her earth attunement.

Llumin gave her a sidelong smile. “They may have given me a few knocks about the head, but I’m more than willing to return the favor.”

They braced themselves for the inevitable combat and rushed back towards the fort. Despite their efforts, there was no denying the Risen. Although they had been focusing on the fort, with the flanking attack of the human and sylvari, the undead had turned their attention back towards them. Selana felt a cold stab of fear as their foes began to charge.

“Balthazar, give me strength,” the elementalist whispered, grasping her weapons more tightly. “Send your avenging warriors to our aid.”

 

At that moment, Selana’s prayers were answered in the most unusual of ways. Illuminated from behind and descending from on high with all the wrath of a drunken meteor, Sylfia leapt from a parapet and crashed into the undead swarms like one of the gods’ most inebriated fighters.

“Oi go in a coma for _three_ months,” she snarled, kicking an undead out of her way, “and _wot_ do I come back to?” Another foe went flying aside as her hammer of Ascalonian stone helped it discover the limitations of gravity. “You two are goin’ on suicide missions! Now get yer petal-headed backsides back in the fort before Oi kick you in there myself!” Punctuating this statement with a final headbutt that sent a Risen abomination staggering back, she wrenched open the gate doors and shoved the other women inside.


	71. Arc 3, Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fall of Claw Island. End of Arc 3.

 

Selana’s hopes for respite upon entering were shattered. The central plaza was a battlefield. Khimma and Klixx battled alongside the battered Lionguard forces with all their might against the increasing numbers of the Orrian hordes.

“It’s no use!” the guardian cried, blue bangs plastered to her pale skin. “They just keep coming!”

“We need to get out of here,” Klixx agreed, sending an earth spike through the chest of an oncoming foe. The undead merely staggered back and glowered down at him, pulling out the stone shard and raising it to strike against him. A dagger sliced through the air and cut its throat.

“Selana,” Myrie shouted, “where’s Gryphon?”

“He’s still on the trebuchets,” the elementalist replied. Glancing at Llumin with a brief nod, the elementalist cast down a line of fire. The mesmer warped space itself as she leapt across the blazing barrier, surrounding herself and her illusions in a corona of flame. When they shattered in a confusing array, the undead she had been fighting clawed at their faces, howling with rage before falling into a stinking pile.

“We can’t keep up like this,” the thief panted, glancing around her uneasily. “Something big is coming, and even Talon won’t possibly be able to deny that we need to get out of here.”

“Don’t count on that,” Sylfia growled, nocking a double set of flaming arrows to her bow. Her aim was true, sending two lesser undead to the ground with arrows bristling from their heads. “Nothin’ short of the Dragon itself will cause that bleedin’ furball to retreat.”

An ominous cloud darkened the already-stormy sky and blotted out the sun. Slowly, with great deliberation, it turned and descended towards Claw Island. Myrie’s eyes widened. This was no minor undead.

“I think something’s coming that’ll change his mind.”

“By the Six,” Selana breathed, face paling. “It’s heading to the wall.”

“It’s going to take out the cannonry,” Myrie whispered. Her throat plummeted. “Gryphon! Oh, gods, he’s still there! Gryphon, get back,” she screamed, boots snapping on the hard stone floor.

 

The mesmer still stood firm on the parapets, firing one last shot before dismounting from the trebuchet and staggering back.  He stared defiantly at the Risen’s bullet-shaped, rotten head and soulless gaze. Undead wings thrashed the air as the draconic creature gave a shrieking roar, landing heavily and stumbling forward.

Myrie’s heartbeat thundered in her throat and her mouth went dry as, with a crashing blow from its merciless talons, it tore through the only thing holding back the unstoppable forces of Zhaitan – and the very wall on which Gryphon still stood. The roiling cloud of dust obscured his form from sight, and Myrie, despite her survival instincts, ran towards the beast that roared with all the rage and triumph of the ever-hungering grave.

A hand gripped her shoulder, and in her haze, Myrie briefly struggled to throw it off.

“Myrie, snap out of it! We need to light the beacons!”

“No! He’s still up there – got to get him – ”

 _“Myrie!”_ The mesmer’s voice echoed in her mind. Her gaze cleared, focusing on the face in front of her.

“Gryphon! I thought you were – ”

“We’re _all_ going to be dead unless those signal flares are lit. Where’s Commander Talon?”

“Still guarding the gate, last I saw. Trahearne looked like he was carrying someone back from the beach.”

Gryphon’s lips flattened. “A near-casualty to Commander Talon’s hubris. We need to let him know to give the order to retreat.”

 

The charr was still standing near the gate, battling alongside his men. His frenzied gaze darted from one undead to another as he barked out commands to his splintering forces. Upon seeing the thief and lord heading his way, a wild smile tore across his face.

“How stand the beaches?” he asked. There was no fear in his voice; only the triumphant bloodlust of a victorious gladiator.

“Fallen, sir,” Gryphon replied, storm-blue gaze snapping with cold fury. “And a lot of good men with them. We must give the signal to retreat.”

“Retreat?” Talon’s snarl was flecked with foam. “You think that one paltry lieutenant will make me turn back? Claw Island has stood firm for almost a century! No beast will change that. We will fight to the last man, to the last body, to the – !”

The dragon at the wall thrashed. A heavy stone was rent from its holding and sent hurtling through the air. It plummeted like a meteor and tore through Watch Commander Talon’s armor like wet paper, ripping through his side and pinning him to the ground. The Lionguard rushed to their fallen leader. “Stay back,” he snarled, clutching a clawed hand to the gaping wound. Forgal was among those who had returned.

“You’ll survive, you old coot,” he growled. He knelt to move the heavy stone. “Three of the Orders’ finest representatives are here. We can get you to – ”

“Enough. Soldiers don’t need lies, Warmaster.” Talon coughed, blood staining the already slick floor. “I’ve wasted enough lives on them. Lionguard!” Those present stood at attention, forming a protective phalanx around the fallen commander. “This is your final order – aid our allies and protect them. We must light the beacons. Claw Island falls today, but we cannot let Lion’s Arch crumble as well. Send those hellspawn back to the depths!”

 

Like a gray wave of churning despair, the undead seethed and boiled through the defenders’ ranks, sending to the grave those who failed to resist. Defenders watched in horror as their companions who had fought alongside them died and were corrupted in a moment, their eyes gleaming not with life, but with the dull power of the Elder Dragon. Even while the mortal wounds still bled, those who died against the Orrians were turned, treacherous bodies fighting against what their spirits once willed. Horror reigned in the fort, and with the screams of the dragon’s lieutenant, its cadence was one of agony.

Selana and Llumin raced towards one of the towers, Sylfia and Nettle battling alongside the Lionguard forces while casting down the undead that grasped and howled at their backs. Trahearne’s voice echoed over the chaos as he ordered the Lionguard to consolidate, protecting the wounded as they were escorted from the fort. Khimma and Klixx held the line alongside their mentor, Magister Sieran, casting spells and protective walls that sheltered those retreating. Gryphon and Myrie helped safeguard those fleeing, the thief sniping at foes who attempted to grab their weakened prey. Forgal roared, pasting foes to the clicking rhythm of turrets laid down by engineer and Whispers’ agent Tybalt Leftpaw.

“This has been great, old friend,” the white-furred charr said, grinning a toothy, tired smile. “But don’t you think we’re a bit old for this?”

“Ah, you know these kids,” the norn replied, sending an undead screeching away with a mighty blow. “Think they can handle everything.”

The engineer snorted, prosthetic hand clinking on his rifle as he fired a decapitating shot at another racing foe. “We were once like that.”

 _“Were_ being the operative word. We’ve gotten a bit more sensible since our younger days.”

Tybalt’s flame turret gave a low _fwoosh_ as a jet of burning pitch fired onto a shambling charr, sending it howling from the walls. “If you say so,” he chuckled.

Sieran and the asura raced across the courtyard, Khimma’s blue guardian magic enveloping Klixx and the sylvari in a sky-colored glow.

“Two beacons left,” Sieran trilled, olive-brown skin shining in the lantern-lights that swayed in the raining winds. “We’ll be positively cherry!”

“Theoretically,” Klixx muttered, drawing up a protective earth aura barely in time to stop an undead’s poisoned arrows from stabbing into their shoulders. “We just need to distract the Orrians long enough and hold out against innumerable foes in order to have any chance of survival.”

“Don’t be so dour, Magister,” the sylvari said cheerily. She sent a bolt of lightning arcing through a line of foes; they jolted and jittered for a few seconds before collapsing into a smoking pile that reeked of burning garbage. “Look! It seems that Selana and Llumin are almost at the third.”

“They’ll need help,” Khimma growled. Even as she spoke, she saw undead falling and turning from the guards who had been defending them. Soon their protectors would become more pawns in the race to light the final beacon.

“Then go give it,” Sieran ushered, crushing an Orrian’s rotten skull with her staff. “Let us three defend the gates and doors; we can’t have the undead sealing us in before we can escape. Go on,” she shooed, waving her hand. “We’ll be fine!”

 

The third beacon flared, sending its spear of blue light into the sky’s seething stomach. Selana whirled around, sweeping several Orrians off of the tower’s steps as she and Llumin descended. “One left,” the elementalist said hoarsely, steps faltering as the bloodslicked stone shone dully beneath her feet. Llumin caught her arm quickly, casting down a concealing line of magic that rendered them invisible long enough for them to reach the courtyard once more.

“How are we supposed to get there,” the mesmer wondered aloud, “when all of our defenders are either dead or helping the evacuees?”

“Did someone call for a genius or two?” Klixx’s confident voice was punctuated by Khimma’s battle-cry as, enveloped in her companion’s electrical haze, she leapt, whirling through the air, and landed with a thunderous crash among the foes in front of the mesmer and elementalist. Selana’s tired smile strengthened.

“You two are godsends.”

“We know,” Khimma grinned, puffing a strand of hair from her face again. “Now let’s light that last beacon and get out of here!”

“We’re not giving up,” Llumin said quietly, blue eyes glowing in the dusky shadows of oncoming night. “We will push the Dragon’s forces out once more.”

“Later,” Klixx encouraged, roasting several undead who had gotten too close for comfort. “First the signal. We have to warn the city.”

 

Legs burning, the beacon party managed to battle their way through the thickening forces of the invaders and up the rickety, slick wooden stairs onto the lighting platform. Selana wrenched the glowing blue firing crystal into place and staggered back as the last beacon roared into the sky with a crackle, the built-up charge setting the group’s hair on end.

“That’s it,” Llumin cried, hope surging in her chest. “Now we just need to join the retreating forces and get out of here.”

“Easier said than done,” Khimma said weakly, pointing down at the courtyard. The few defenders who remained were rapidly either fleeing or falling. “Klixx and I might be good, but I don’t know if we can get through there without leaving the gates opened too long. We may risk endangering the refugees who’ve already made it outside.”

“We’ll make it,” Selana declared, her headpiece flaring and eyes blazing with determination.

“Of course you will,” a jovial voice chortled. A hiss and bang followed shortly, sending grey chunks of undead splattering on the wet walls and floor. “Good to see you again, Initiate,” Tybalt grinned.

“It’s Lightbringer now, sir,” Selana smiled. “And thanks for the save.”

“You can thank me with a cider when we get back to Lion’s Arch,” he replied, packing up a portable turret. “I’ll be staying up here at the gate doors with Sieran. Now get down there and book it!”

 

Klixx and Khimma gave a confident wave to their mentor above them as they jogged to the main entrance. Forgal was there waiting, shoulders heaving and silver beard and hair stippled with dried blood.

“Go on; we’ll follow soon after,” he growled, shoving a thumb behind him.

Myrie nodded and gave him a passing salute as she raced through the door. Trahearne and Gryphon had finished escorting the last of the wounded out.

“I think that’s all of us,” Llumin said, teleporting back into the group’s center and jogging to keep up. She turned back to the gates. “Sieran, call Lightbringer Tybalt and tell him to run down! You and the warmaster join him and meet us out here!”

“A bit of trouble with that plan,” Sieran grunted. From the ground, the party saw her send an Orrian reeling from the parapet; she was quickly surrounded by a swarm of its kin. “There are too many undead; I can’t leave my post!”

“I’m with you there,” Tybalt roared. The charr’s turrets were being broken as quickly as he placed them.

“If you don’t move, you won’t have another chance to!” Selana turned in her tracks and glanced back at them. “Get out now!”

“There’s no time, friend,” Tybalt called. “Go on! Make sure the others survive. And tell the Master of Whispers that we did our duty.” Selana’s eyes briefly flashed.

“We can’t just leave you behind!”

“You’re not leaving us behind,” Forgal bellowed, pulling an Orrian from the gate’s opening and throwing it behind him. “We’re letting you escape. Now get out of here while you can! Make our sacrifices count!” The norn waved an arm at the agent and the magister, and with a mighty heave, the thick wooden doors slammed shut.

 

Khimma and Klixx turned partway as the gates’ closing rumble echoed behind them. “Wait,” Klixx shouted, brows furrowing. “Where’s Sieran?”

“I’m sure she’ll rejoin us,” Khimma panted, her short legs pumping into the soft sand.

Sylfia bellowed as she wrenched her hammer from the jaws of an undead and punched its rotten skull in. “You know where she is. Sieran and the others are making sure we’ve got as much of a chance as possible.”

Khimma’s eyes widened. “No,” she whispered. Then, more loudly, turning around: “We can’t leave her behind! Klixx, come on!” His fingers were already summoning the winds that would carry them to certain doom. Sylfia growled.

“I can’t let you two do that,” she muttered, charging to them. Quick as a thought, the sylvari hefted Klixx under one arm and Khimma under the other.

“Put us down, you oaf,” Klixx snarled, desperately hitting the warrior’s corded arms. “We can’t just leave her there! She’ll die!”

“You think I don’ know that?” Sylfia roared, voice cracking as she bashed her head into an Orrian’s stomach and sent it reeling away. “My Warmaster’s up there, too, fighting for his life and all of ours down here! You want to respect their decisions? Then you’ve got to get to those ships so we can fight another day.” She dropped the asura on the ground, and they stumbled to keep up. Klixx gave Khimma a grim look as he helped her stand, eyes not leaving the ships ahead as they dashed along the beach. “We’re not giving up,” the warrior muttered. “And when we return, we’ll give those rots hell to pay.”


	72. Arc 4, Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Traveling Circus discusses the aftermath of Claw Island's fall.

 

Lion’s Arch was bracingly calm. Although the city’s Lionguard had been warned of the impending attack and the fall of Claw Island, there was an almost-forced sense of peace on the city, as if the idea of doom crouching at their gates was a monster under the bed that, if unacknowledged, would remain harmless. On occasion, there would be haggling over an item in the merchants’ quarters which seemed a bit more strident than usual, or a man would look to the sky with more concern than he may give the average storm. It was a darker haze that covered the city, though the citizens had seen their fair shares of squalls and dangers before. Those it could handle. But the thought of one of the Elder Dragon’s forces lurking so close to their homes was  a bad dream that no one wanted to face in reality. Myrie gave a shout of anger as a large charr brusquely shoved past her, nearly sending her spinning.

“Watch it, you oaf,” she snarled, glaring at his retreating back.

“Don’ give ‘im too much trouble,” Sylfia muttered. The sylvari sat on a cold anvil and worked on grinding some of the chips out of her hammer’s stone. “Some cope with loss in their own ways.”

“We don’t have _time_ to mourn,” the thief shot back, tone only slightly quieter. “Forgal died so that we could – ”

“Say it one more time and Oi’ll punch you,” the warrior said hoarsely, a tired anger to her voice. “I already had to drag back those two screaming ‘sura from rushing to their doom. Oi saw Forgal just before the gates closed, and Magister Sieran and that Tybalt fellow, too. They knew wot they were doin’.” Ancient granite-dust sloughed to the cobbled floor, the dry scent of stone mingling with the sea breeze and the smells of rotting fish and wet wood. “Oi just wish…”

“I wish it had been Trahearne,” Myrie growled spitefully. “Who does he think he is? Just comes along, wielding some magic sword and claiming to know so much about Orr… If he knew so much, why couldn’t he find some strategy to keep the island from falling? Or see if he could have found a way to save them?”

“Shaddap.”

Myrie’s head swiveled. “What did you say?”

“Oi _said_ ,” Sylfia bellowed, rising to her feet and stalking over to the thief, “shut yer stinkin’, whining gob!” Her shoulders heaved.  “You want Trahearne dead? Congratulations. You’ve taken out our best shot at knowing our enemy and lost our foremost source of information on its territory. Trahaerne _knows_ he’s no savior. He didn’t even want to _be_ at that blood-boughed fort. The only reason ‘e came here was to see if he could help _prevent_ casualties, not show off his knowledge. You saw ‘ow well tha’ went!” The blazing orange glow of Sylfia’s veins in the setting sun was already bright enough to cast her face into ominous shadows. “The reason we lost our mentor isn’t ‘cause of Tra’earne. The reason we lost so many men – the _reason_ we lost that bloody island, was because of Commander Talon’s arrogance and that of ‘is crew.” Sylfia’s jaw shifted. “Oi know you’re upset. You think Selana and the others aren’t?” She spun on her heel and marched back to her spot, setting her hammer down hard enough to crack the cobblestones beneath it. “It’s about more than jus’ you an’ your feelings.”

Myrie glared at her, her own jaw working on her thoughts. Finally, she opened her mouth.

“You’re sober.”

The sylvari raised an eyebrow, only giving her a passing glance. “So?” she snorted.

“Why?”

She was silent for a moment, the only sounds coming from the bustle of street vendors, seagulls, and children running around. The stone made another sweep against her hammer-head.

“Oi wan’ to be sober when we get back in there,” Sylfia said at last, tone even. “Oi want to remember taking back that island and putting Forgal’s spirit at rest. Oi mayn’t believe in whatever Spirits of the Wild nonsense ‘e did,” she continued, “but the leas’ I can do is make sure ‘e’s avenged.” She raised her hammer to eye’s level once more and inspected it. “Should be good,” she grunted, hefting it back into its holder on her back. “Certainly will take a while before this ol’ thing cracks,” she said, a dry smile stretching her thin lips.

“Good,” Myrie sighed. She wasn’t quite certain about Sylfia’s reasoning, but it seemed sound for the time being. “Are you sure you don’t want a swig of something?” she asked after a minute or so, rubbing her neck. The warrior gave her a smirk.

“This to make up for yer rashness?”

“It’s an apology of sorts. Probably won’t get much chance to drink before we take that fortress back.”

The warrior snorted. “Right there,” she admitted. “All right, fine. Just a nip of whatever you’ve got.”

Myrie reached into her pack and rummaged around for a bit, face scrunching. She withdrew several items which she definitely did not remember having in there previously, setting handfuls of rings and other jewelry or mementos on the stone next to her. Sylfia gave a bark of laughter. “Been at it again, eh?” She shook her head. “You cope weird.”

“I swear I don’t notice it sometimes,” the thief retorted. “Ah. Here we go.” Her fingers grasped the smooth glass bottle and withdrew it. Her confident smile crumbled as she stared at the rice wine, and a tight knot wound its way into her chest.

“Oi,” Sylfia said softly, “looks like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” the human replied quickly, laughing lightly and pinching at her nose. “Just some old rice wine.” She set the wax-sealed, black bottle on a nearby wall with a clink. “It’s just… Mom used to get this stuff sometimes during the Canthan Lunar Year celebrations. She says we’ve got some old blood from back there – claims that’s why she looks as young as she does despite her age – so she would sometimes leave out a few drops for ceremony’s sake to please any ancestors who may’ve wandered into Divinity’s Reach.” Myrie’s smile quavered. “Gods, it’s just wine,” she huffed frustratedly. “There’s nothing emotional about it!”

“You’re worried.” Selana’s calm voice hovered over the thief. Myrie cursed herself for not noticing her approach and hurriedly ground her knuckles into watering eyes. “It’s natural,” the red-haired woman continued, “to grow concerned about family during times of distress or when you’ve been apart from them for a while. You,” she said, glancing down at Myrie, “have the misfortune of both.”

“So do you,” the thief retorted, frowning.

“I know.” The pale woman did not sit by her. “Llumin has only just realized that we are related. I suspect that my parents’ ghosts intervened on the battlefield, and that this sent her into a shock which prompted her latent memories. She was calling out my name as if I was her last hope when I found her.”

“You _were_ her last hope.” Myrie pulled at the wax-sealed cord at the wine’s lid, breaking the seal and removing the top. Its sharp, sweet smell cut through the briny air.

“Not so. She could have called for Sylfia, or Trahearne – ”

“Sylfia’s more of an acquaintance, and Trahearne was far within the fort helping everyone else.” The thief removed a couple of small earthenware cups from her pack and inspected them. Finding them to not be cracked or otherwise damaged, she poured a small amount of the alcohol into them and gave one to Sylfia, who had walked and stood by her. The sylvari sniffed her drink appreciatively before snapping it back and giving a contented sigh. Selana sipped delicately at hers. Myrie took a long drink from her jar, ears and throat burning as it coursed through her. She coughed lightly, eyes watering; it was more potent than she remembered. “Don’t you find it funny, though,” she said, setting it down; she would regret a long draught if she kept going, “don’t you find it funny that you were so close? I mean, Nettle probably sensed her dying there and – ”

“Nettle would have let ‘er die,” Sylfia said sharply. Myrie quickly took her cup from her hands before the sylvari’s grip could crush it. “An’ trus’ me, she’s able to sense plenty o’ death on that island. Madwoman prob’ly was in a state of euphoria.”

“Fair enough,” Selana conceded. “But even in the battle my mind was elsewhere; there was such a noise that it’s surprising I even heard her.”

“I thought it was your uncanny hearing that sent you her way,” Myrie said, brow furrowing. “I mean, sometimes I’ll hear one of our group’s voices more clearly than others. Not uncommon when you’ve been working with people to memorize how they sound or even walk.”

“You’ve memorized how we walk?”

“Well, I can generally tell based on the sound of someone’s steps who it is; yours,” she said, motioning to the elementalist, “is usually firm and precise in your steps. And Sylfia’s is… well…”

“Bloody roaring drunk, usually,” the sylvari grinned. Her smile slowly faded. “Usually.”

“Anyhow, back to the topic at hand,” Myrie said, waving Sylfia’s empty cup. “The point still stands that for some reason, you heard Llumin’s cry for help when no one else would. She might be sylvari now, but I think that there’s still at least one bone in her body that must have resonated with yours. Either way, I’m certain your parents’ ghosts helped.”

“Is that even possible?” Sylfia arched a skeptical brow. “Oi know ghosts don’ exactly adhere to our rules, but they seemed to be rather noncombatant.”

“Then you obviously missed the part where they swore to disrupt every one of Nettle’s nonessential experiments after failing to send part of the Shiverpeaks on her head.”

“That avalanche at the Priory was your _parents?”_

A cold presence slid in like the chill of the grave.

“Was her parents, is her parents, _are_ her parents,” Nettle hissed. “Who continue to be keeping their promises to dismantle all of my work on my poisons and experiments.”

“You do realize that some of those ‘experiments’ of yours are still considered sentient by most of the major cities, right?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I cannot care less about what those think. Their bodies were useful to the expansion of scientific research. And now I’m stuck with _useless_ research unless it strictly adheres to whatever moral codes or missions your delightful spectral birthgivers term to be necessary.”

“How unfortunate,” Myrie replied dryly. Nettle scraped a finger down the side of Adam’s bony temple; the grating noise sent chills down the thief’s spine.

“What _are_ we doing, chatting here like old crones? We cannot return to Claw Island while it is occupied by Risen, and I doubt that the Elder Dragon will wait patiently for us to formulate plans for terribly long.”

“Our orders _have_ formed plans; that is the problem.” Selana frowned. “The issue lies not in a lack of inspiration, but in a lack of coherence.  The Vigil and the Priory think us of the Order to be little better than thieves and murderers – ”

“Well, Nettle isn’t exactly helping your reputation.”

“And there are those in the Order who think the other two to be too overt in their execution to possibly work.”

“Well, we can’t just bloody sit here,” Sylfia snarled. She stood suddenly, leafy armor-plates clacking against each other. “Burn it; if our idjit leaders aren’t going to do anything, _I_ will!”

“Sylfia, wait!” Myrie gave an exasperated huff as the fiery sylvari stormed off, hammer brandished high. She glanced behind her; Selana watched her with an unsettlingly-familiar look of cold contemplation. Nettle, on the other hand, was grinning widely, eyes glinting.

“Well,” she purred, “having our least diplomatic individual representing us could go quite well.”

Myrie’s lip curled at the necromancer before she ran off to follow Sylfia.


	73. Arc 4, Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Pact is suggested.

 

“And _that’s_ why none of our individual plans will work. Now get the corks outta yer ears an’ lissen up!”

Myrie skidded to a halt; the sight in front of her was surely a dream or hallucination. She never would have expected to see Sylfia standing next to Llumin, who nodded as she stepped forward.

“Orders of Tyria,” she started, voice echoing and silencing the whispers that had started to rise. “We stand here today on the end of one of our worst defeats. We cannot let this define us.”

“We won’t!” Warmaster Efut of the Vigil, a short yet stubborn asura, interjected. Her sharp teeth flashed from a dark-skinned face. “Which is why – !”

“If you will hold your statements, please.” Trahearne’s calm voice did not broker any disagreement. With Caladbolg glowing in his hands, the impressive blade pressed into the ground lent him enough credence to silence any further protests. The asura grit her teeth, muttering quietly to herself as her glowering gaze returned to Llumin.

The mesmer turned a thankful smile to the Firstborn before she continued. “As I was saying, these are not the days of your forefathers. This is not the enemy we have once known, content to nibble at the edges of our shores while we squabble for resources and plans. Our Orders can no longer sit in suspicious holes and throw rocks at each other while the Dragon ravages our lands and our people. Steward Gixx,” she said, first addressing the leader of the Durmand Priory, “General Almorra,” – here speaking to Myrie’s own Order’s head – “and Doern Valasquez,” – she nodded to the representative for the Master of Whispers – “you are all intelligent people in charge of armies whose forces are individually among the most impressive living militaries in any people’s history. Yet as long as we are divided among intelligence and looking down upon strength, or if we hold ourselves higher than the tasks which must be done to complete our missions, we will get nowhere, and the Dragons will consume us all. This is why I am offering a solution; if only for this short while, I recommend following no particular mission from any one order.”

“Ridiculous,” sputtered Gixx, his green eyes narrowing. “Magister, surely you cannot be suggesting a _merger!”_

“Pfah!” Almorra’s fangs bared in a dismissive snarl. “As if you bookworms and honorless cowards would have anything to offer that the Vigil cannot!”

“Sirs, madams, please!” Llumin’s desperate cry fell on deaf ears.  A sharp, thunderous crack startled everyone into silence.

Selana Firestone strode into the circle’s center, pushing aside those who had started to crowd too closely to the mesmer. A smoking crater next to the crowd, still sparking with electricity from the called bolt of lightning, left a potent reminder that the sylvari had every right to finish her speech. Llumin stared wide-eyed at Selana’s impassive face.

“As you were saying, Magister,” the elementalist said after a second or two of expectant silence.

Llumin blinked. “Ah, yes; as I was saying, there _are_ things which all of our orders cannot possibly fill in. We of the Priory have the knowledge yet lack the manpower to apply our plans. You of the Order of Whispers have the information necessary to help us plot the fallout and best way those plans can be applied.”

“And us Vigil folk got determination in spades,” Sylfia grinned, “but you’ve gotter realize you can only whack on something so hard before it doesn’t work.”

“Which is why I am suggesting that we form an alliance between our Orders, regardless of race, nation, or creed.”

“A Pact, if you will.” Trahearne smiled at the idea. “But who shall lead it?”

“I’ve already thought of that,” Llumin noted, beaming proudly. “And since it pertains so well to your Wyld Hunt…”

Trahearne’s confident expression began to wither.  Before he could say anything, Sylfia spoke.

“You know, she ‘as a point. You helped us protect several outposts from both Nightmare Court and Risen attacks in the past, and you just aided with the strategy to save those we could on Claw Island,” Sylfia said, ticking the experiences on her fingers. “So there’s some knowledge there.”

“You’ve read the most about Orr and its people, and you know the strategies of the Dragon best,” Selana continued, eyes narrowing.

“And, as I said earlier,” Llumin said confidently, “it pertains to your Wyld Hunt. With an army to lead you into Orr, you can purify it, and we can take on the Elder Dragon itself!”

Sylfia gave a grunt.  “Either way you slice it, we need to get moving on Claw Island. The dragon won’t wait for an eternity to unleash its army, and it’ll only grow stronger as more time passes.”

Llumin nodded. The assembly watched as she waked towards the Firstborn, saluted, and asked, “What are your orders, Marshal?”

Trahearne’s jaw shifted, amber eyes glowing with uncertainty, fear – and, below it all, a grim sense of realization and determination. He straightened his back. “We... won’t be able to simply re-enter,” he said finally.  “Llumin, I am going to ask you and a team of researchers to help with finding what books and knowledge you have on engaging an entrenched foe in combat. Consult the Vigil and Whispers for information they may have, as well. We’re going a new strategy which will best showcase all of our orders’ talents and dislodge this beast.”

Llumin’s gaze shone. “Yes, sir.”

 

 


	74. Arc 4, Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrie trains the troops and learns of Nettle's background; the necromancer makes a disturbing discovery.

“You think that’s going to be fast enough to outrun a Risen, recruits,” Myrie snapped, “then you’ve got an unpleasant lesson to learn.” She uncrossed her arms, armed her shortbow, aimed, and launched an inky shot that teleported her to where it landed. A young charr nearly leapt out of his tawny fur in shock as Myrie’s dagger rushed towards his muzzle. “Claw Island is now heavily fortified by the enemy. The odds are not stacked in our favor.” The recruit fumbled with his sword but managed to parry her blows, growling in frustration as her blade glinted like a star in the light of the setting sun.

 She nodded once before she slipped behind the row to knock an asura soldier’s footing from her. The shorter warrior rolled with the movement and drew two swords time to discover that the ground below her had a steep drop-off. She landed with a yelp.

  
“You’ve got to know your territory, soldiers,” Myrie dodged the asura’s vicious swipe at her knees and stole her blade as she circled around. “Simply going off of what we know is not going to work this round. Risen will kill without hesitation or mercy, and this means that you need to be ever-vigilant that your own allies do not have the chance to become corrupted.”

“Easier said than done,” muttered a brawny norn.

  
Myrie’s eyes narrowed.  She readied another teleportation shot, stalked up to him, and brandished her daggers. “Care to repeat that?”

The norn sneered down at her and continued his drills, but was silent.

  Myrie growled and stepped in, striking at his defensive stance.   “In case it missed your attention, recruit, anything that kills the living will also work on the undead. Does it have a heart?” Her weapon broke past his arms and hovered over his chest; she drew back her hand before he could strike it.   “Stab it. If it’s still got its head,” she said, rolling out of his striking range,  “remove it. Don’t think just because you’re bigger – or smaller – than your opponent that victory is uncertain.” She sheathed her daggers and matched his glare with her own.  “If you think a fight's too hard to win, you’re already as good as dead. You’ve got to fight smart.”  
  
  “What do we look like, the Priory?” he snorted, stepping back. “If I wanted to run from the enemy or hide in holes, I’d have joined them.” He hefted his axe over his shoulder and turned on his heel. “Forget this. If I want to fight Risen, I’m doing it my way.”

Myrie’s jaw shifted.

“Ma’am?” The charr recruit said hesitantly. “Are you just going to let him go?”

  “No.” The grip on her dagger shifted.  “Not like that.”   Her arm moved like a blur.  

The norn gave a bellow of pain and whirled back around.  
“What in Bear’s name was that for?” He stalked towards her as he yanked her dagger from his arm and clamped a hand over the bleeding wound.

“You knew I’d react somehow, didn’t you?” Myrie snapped. “So why weren’t you prepared? I’m a predicable ally, and I could have killed you right then. If I'd been compromised or turned, I  _would_  have killed you. What makes you think you’ll survive against the Risen?” Her eyes burned with fury; she did not quail at his heaving chest or the fist he raised at her. “Go on, strike me,” she said darkly. “Maybe Zhaitan’s horde will have second thoughts when they see you run mewling away because you can’t be bothered to take orders.”

“You’re mad, tiny,” he hissed.

“And I’m not a coward. Tell me, which one of us fought against the dragon’s minions? You can either straighten up and get back in line, or I’ll actually  _let_  you charge in there and die in the first place, because something tells me that you never really planned on sticking around if it wasn’t going to end up with your name in the stories of the skaalds.”

  
He gave a long, low growl, baring teeth that sharpened wolfishly in the dusky afternoon sky.  She defiantly stared back, emerald eyes as sharp as her daggers. Finally, with a snarl of frustration, the warrior hefted his axe over his shoulder and marched back into line. Myrie’s shoulders ached; she internally sighed as he turned away. 

  
  “Everyone meet back in the Lion’s Square. We’ll meet with the other squads later to evaluate performance.  Dismissed!”

 

 

The thief rolled her shoulders as the Vigil unit marched away; their normal low buzz of conversation had quieted to a dull drone, and not a single laugh or triumphant cry interrupted the atmosphere that lurked over them.

 A senior officer took over the unit’s beach drills, allowing Myrie to be swept aside by Sylfia, who looked equal parts irate and concerned.  
  
“We can’t find ‘er,” the sylvari hissed, pulling her aside. “Selana’s assured me she’s not in the Whispers’ camps, and the Priory knows better than to let her near  _their_  artifacts – ”  
  
“Wait, slow down,” Myrie stopped in her tracks.  Sylfia walked for another two feet before the thief’s arm pulled her back. “Who can’t we find? Please tell me it’s not who I think it is…”   
  
“Oh, unless you know more than one raging sylvari psychopath, please let me know!” Sylfia removed her helm and threw it aside. “Just wot we need during this rotten mess,” she seethed.  
  
“Nettle won’t cause any long-lasting harm as long as my seal’s still on her,” Gryphon emerged from a Whispers tent. “And I assure you, it would take some impressively-potent work to get it off without any negative consequences.”  
  
“Why do we even keep her around if she’s such a bad thing?” Myrie glanced from one to the other. “I don’t understand.  She seemed decent at first, but I’ll admit; lately, she seems more... ruthless.  She’s more snappish, too – impatient.  What happened?”  
  
  Gryphon opened his mouth and couldn’t meet her gaze.  “Nettle… always has her own ideas of right and wrong.  Before we in the Order of Whispers met her, she thought that what she was doing was for an overall good cause.”  
  
  “What …?”  
  
  “Murder.  Vivisection.  Experimentation on sapient creatures.” Sylfia ticked the list on her fingers.  “She's not as innocent as she likes to pretend.  Nettle’s always wanted to see how far the limits and relations between magic and blood can be pushed.  She used to rationalize what she’d do; she’d kill a person that she thought had got off with a crime and leave his corpse as a message, or experiment on people she knew would get away with their own dirty deeds if no-one else intervened.  She wanted to learn, but she also wanted to be a hero of sorts. The only times she’d kill people who weren’t on the wrong side of the law was when they would try to stop her.”  The sylvari’s jaw shifted.  “Until her most recent meeting with Mother, I think she still was trying to do the right thing.  Now, I guess she figures since no-one will ever give her their true approval, she’ll just do what she what she can with what she has.  It was never bound to end well.  Ever since she found that skull of hers, her experiments, her ideas of moral flexibility, have become more… loose.”  Sylfia shook her head.  “I don’t like her methods.  Never have.  But we’re in a desperate situation.”  
  
  Gryphon ran a hand over his face.  “I’d like to deny it, but it’s true.  With one Elder Dragon on the rise and more to follow, we need someone with her talents to taste corruption.  The seal I put on Nettle lets me sense her general location from nearly anywhere, and it keeps her from doing too much harm.  She’s essentially a blood-powered dowsing rod.  The Master of Whispers and Steward Gixx agree that using her talents could help us root out dragon or other obscure magics before sending troops into a location. Not to mention,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “she’s rather good at getting information out of otherwise-unresponsive captives…”  
  
“You mean torture,” Sylfia grimaced. “Obviously whatever seals you’ve got on ‘er don’t seem to be inhibiting her murder factor.”  
  
“Actually,” the mesmer said, “it has.”  
  
Myrie shuddered.  She still remembered those many nights ago when she had discovered the necromancer tasting hers and Selana’s blood.  Gryphon had threatened Nettle in no uncertain terms that further unauthorized experimentation on her guild members would result in her most precious object – her brain – being reduced to a truly vegetative state. Still, the seal’s protections only went so far, and having her free to kill or experiment on those outside of the Knights of Gryphon or the heads of the Orders left her with nearly all of Tyria to test.  
  
“At a time like this,” Gryphon’s voice broke into Myrie’s thoughts, “we can’t afford to have her gone. The dragon could easily be readying a massive counterattack before we can reclaim the island. If we can’t get that back, there’s no way we’ll be able to launch into Orr.”  
  
“Well, fortunately for you,” a calm voice said, the low, hollow tapping of fingernails on bone accenting her words, “you won’t need to worry too much. Well, not about me, anyway.”   
Nettle slid from the shadow of a tree and into the setting sunlight, smiling blissfully as it beamed warmly down on her pale face.

Myrie’s stomach lurched. Knowing what she did now, she couldn’t reconcile the gentle, frail image the necromancer presented with the cold, cruel reality.

“Unfortunately,” Nettle continued blithely, cleaning her nails with her dagger, “it appears as though my talents have come in handy at the wrong time.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  Instantly Gryphon loomed over her; she merely smiled up at his grim face.  
  
“Isn’t it obvious? There are traitors in your midst. All of your orders have been compromised.”  
  
“Then let’s head in and root them out before they can do any more harm,” Sylfia snarled, hefting her hammer.  
  
“There you go again, thinking like a Vigil,” Nettle sighed, rolling her eyes. “Spies work best when they think they’re safe.”  She sheathed her weapon.  “If you let them know they’ve been uncovered, they will either tunnel like worms into a corpse, or they will lash out.”  
  
“Well, we can’t just stand here and let whoever it is send messages to….” Myrie’s brow furrowed. “Wait; who, exactly, is spying on us?”  
  
“How  _do_  you get anything done, thinking with all of that meat?”  The necromancer gave a longsuffering sigh.  “Let me outline it for you. Who or what would most stand to benefit from the destruction of the three most powerful Orders in Tyria?”

  
Myrie’s stomach dropped.

 Nettle clapped. “The ink of realization has finally spilled upon your gloriously-blank page of a face. The dragon is smarter than we give it credit. Be careful when you work on uprooting your worms from your corpses,” she said cheerily.  “If it lashes out, it’s going to spew its venom, and we have no clue who will get burned.”


	75. Arc 4, Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin and Selana talk about the sylvari's unusual memories. The Pact camp is attacked.

"How are you holding up?"

 Llumin's head rose from her scroll at the sound of Selana's voice. She rolled it closed.  
"As well as can be expected," she replied with a brave smile, standing and brushing dust from her segmented skirt. "Was there something you wanted to talk about?"  
  
"Yes; several things, actually,” the elementalist replied. "May I sit down?"  
  
The mesmer nodded and motioned to a threadbare plush chair on the opposite side of her rickety wooden table.  "I think I can guess what you want to talk about,” she said hesitantly.  She replaced the scroll in a ramshackle bookcase and took a seat opposite of her. "As insane as it seems..."  
  
"This world is full of crazy things,” Selana said.  She gave a gentle smile.    
  
Llumin stood and paced a brisk circle around the human.  "But this is all so... so  _different_  from what can be expected! The Elder Dragons are a strange, new threat to all our lives, albeit one I'm sure we can take down. But this... these memories..." Her leafed brow furrowed. "There's no logical explanation for them. None that make any possible sense."  
  
"You're speaking about the memories of your birth.”  The elementalist took a breath.  “Your _human_ birth.”

Llumin's pace paused.  Her wide eyes shifted towards the human.

 The elementalist sighed.  "You saw the ghosts on the battlefield, didn't you?"  
  
"Mother and Father," the sylvari murmured. "At least," she said with a soft laugh, "that's what those few memories would suggest."  
  
"They are correct." Selana stood; she would have hit her head on the tent’s ceiling but for a warning cry from the mesmer.  With an awkward cough, she returned to her chair.  
  
"You're a bit taller than I am," the sylvari noted as the human crossed long legs beneath her embroidered robes.  
  
"So far, you're taking this surprisingly well," she said. "I was in a state of shock when I discovered.... well, it's a long story."    
  
  Llumin was silent for a moment.  "I…”  Her mouth opened once before she closed it.  “I was dying, wasn't I? That's why Mother and Father brought me to the Pale Tree -- to see if she would be able to heal me."  
  
Selana gave a long, low sigh and leaned back.  "No. At that rate, they had accepted that you weren't going to be healed.  They instead prayed to the Six for forgiveness and asked that you be accepted into the sylvari's Dream of Dreams for rebirth. Gryphon Radwing – "  
  
"The male red-haired mesmer?"  
  
"That's him. He said that I was so distraught at the rebirthing that if he hadn’t sealed the memories away, I would have suffered irreparable mental damage. I suppose something similar must have happened to you?"  
  
  Llumin shrugged.  "I was just an infant. I'm honestly surprised I remembered any of it – the Dream must have preserved those memories. I had dismissed them as someone else's for so long. I thought they came from some innate admiration or curiosity."  
  
"And that may still be."  
  
"But it was really when your friend, the necromancer -- "  
  
"The other sylvari? Nettle?"  
  
Llumin nodded vigorously. "Yes; her." She paused. "Although I take it," she said hesitantly, "that she isn’t really your friend?"  
  
"The enemy of my enemy," the human said coolly. "The Orders are wary of her for very good reason."  
  
"Well, after she visited me and started talking about humans, I thought that perhaps she might know more about sylvari who felt like they had been born in the wrong skin. I think she really was helping.  I felt under her guidance that I was beginning to understand who I was. Yet I kept remembering something impossible: Parents.  A sister.  Even with what the Dream could have shown me, it didn’t make any sense.”  She shook her head, a bitter smile on her face. "Seeing you for the first time made me remember my past.  I didn’t know what to do with them; that’s why I avoided you.”  
  
"I would guess that the Pale Tree helped subdue those memories. She probably didn't want you to be too upset about your old life."  
  
"Mother would have been perfectly happy if I had never remembered, I think.”  Llumin’s voice was sharp.  She closed her eyes and took a breath before continuing.  “She doesn't hate or think unwell of humans, but as she was right to worry about what remembering would have cost. Not that I’m doing unwell now," she said quickly, noticing Selana's worried expression. "It's just that... it's still rather strange, thinking that I have a human for my sister. Not just an adopted one, but one who is actually of my own flesh and blood."  
  
"Well, I doubt I'm made of leaves and sap," Selana smiled, "but I understand how you feel."  
  
  A high-pitched whistle interrupted their conversation.

 “Oh, I nearly forgot!”  Llumin leapt to her feet and walked over to a small firepit in the center of the tent where a small, silver teakettle bubbled.  She wrapped her hand with a thick woolen scarf before removing it and pouring hot water into two earthen cups and placing a few vibrant purple leaves into them. "I grew this tea myself," she said proudly.  Realizing the elementalist’s conflicted expression, she quickly added, “Oh, thorns, not from myself!  That would be… weird.  They’re from my garden at the Grove.  Would you like some?"  
  
Selana nodded and accepted the warm mug.  The tea was a fruity blend with hints of vanilla.  She set the cup aside and asked, "So, now that everything’s out in the open, what would you like to do next?”  
  
Llumin picked at the edge of her mug.  "Does anyone else know that we're sisters?"  
  
"Only those who are in my guild, and I doubt anyone outside of the Knights would believe it," Selana replied, shrugging. "I’ll admit that even to me it still sounds improbable.  You don't have to announce it to the world; the reactions from either of our races might not be the most pleasant. Mother and Father were cautious about your birth for a reason."  
  
"Well, that’s not on us.”  Llumin frowned. "Just because we don't look much alike doesn't mean that we aren't family!"  
  
Selana couldn't stop the grin that formed at the sylvari's expression. "You're right there. Nonetheless, I will leave the choice up to you." She stood to leave. "I do have to ask, though, in the spirit of sisterliness: How long have you admired the Marshal?"  
  
Llumin's lavender glow deepened; a dark golden flush colored her cheeks.  “Oh!  Well, I mean, he _is_ very intelligent and kind and handsome, I suppose, if you’re interested in that sort of thing – and of course he’s been helpful with finding materials on Orr and telling me of his travels –  but just because he’s helped me with my studies and – !”  
  
"All right, all right," Selana laughed. "I was only teasing.”  
  
"It’s just a professional thing, that’s all,” Llumin murmured.  She couldn’t meet her sister’s gaze.  “I admire his work and character.  He’s being very brave with all of this, really.”  
  
"Mm. And he certainly seems to have a high opinion of you from what I've heard.”  Llumin’s head swiveled.  Selana couldn’t keep her lips from curving upward. “It was wonderful to speak with you, Llumin. Stay safe."  
  
"I will. And…"

 Selana turned to glance back at her.

 The sylvari smiled shyly, willow-leaved hair draping slightly over her face. "Please feel free to call me 'sister' if you so wish. Should you require any help with research, please let me know."

  
Selana returned the smile.

  
“I will be in the Order of Whispers if you need any secrets revealed. Stay in touch, sister."

 

When Selana emerged, the camp was buzzing with suspicion. Order was seperate from Order, and all eyes stared at one another skittishly. Many were armed.  Confusion only briefly flickered over her face; she composed herself and walked through with her head high, listening.  
  
"Did you hear?" she caught wind of an asura whispering to her partner furtively. "Rumors say we've been compromised."  
  
"A spy," growled a charr Initiate as she walked by. "Dragon's got its teeth into someone's brain. Trahearne's saying we might have an attack soon, but when? Where?"  
  
"We can't let fear paralyze us," a magister stated, smacking her fist into her hand. "I say let it come. We'll take it out and defend our camp. It'll be a good warmup before we kill its champion at the island."  
  
"Don't be overconfident." Khimma's voice snapped into the norn magister's boast. "We're not dealing with some tomb robbers. We're dealing with an _Elder Dragon_."  
  
"Wait, what's that?" Lyca Whitestorm emerged from the chef's tent carrying a platter of sandwiches.

Elmfrond hastily sneaked over and swiped several, stuffing them into his pack as the ranger drew her bow.  
  
"Where?" he asked, green cheeks bulging with roasted chicken and homemade bread.  
  
"There." She pointed at a speck in the sky. Her wolf growled at it as her eyes narrowed. "I think we have our spy."

"Wait; don't shoot!" Selana warned; yet by the time her warning was voiced, the white-haired norn had already drawn back and fired a single, deadly arrow. Shocked yelps smattered from the camp as the rotten eagle plummeted to the ground, twitching as it returned to its eternal rest.  
  
"There," the norn sighed. "I think that solves our problem."  
  
Trahearne had entered the main camp during the commotion. Upon seeing the Risen eagle's corpse, he looked up. "That eagle was definitely our spy... When did you see it?"  
  
Elmfrond remarked that he'd seen some sort of speck in the sky a while back but had dismissed it as a seagull. He swallowed his sandwich. "I'm... guessing that wasn't what it was."  
  
The Marshal gave a pained grimace. "No. No, it wasn't."  
  
The waters behind the camp began to seethe. The necromancer's golden eyes narrowed. "Everyone, brace yourselves," he shouted, drawing Caladbolg. Its blade glowed in the chilling air. "We're under – !"  
  
A Risen krait lunged from the depths of the sea. Elmfrond drew his pistols and loosed a round of lead into its rotting skull, sending putrid fragments of skin and bone spewing in the air.  
"Under attack, got it," he panted. "Anything you want us to do?"  
  
More Risen emerged from the seas, dripping saltwater and snarling gurgling threats.  
  
"Defend the tents," the Marshal ordered. "They have our information on the Risen and their plans. If those get destroyed, we might not have the chance to push them out again."  
  
"Push them back," Selana shouted. "Push past them, and we can retake the Island!"  
  
"We have to find their leader," Trahearne said.  He swung Caladbolg in a deadly arc. "See if you can find which one of these brutes is leading the charge and kill it. Their offensive is useless without someone directing it."  
  
"You've got it! SHU-TY, tie their rotten tendons in knots," Khimma barked, dashing from the Priory's inventions tent with her tiny silver golem. Klixx turned disbelieving eyes on her as the automaton clinked to the ground and bobbed away.  
  
"See, you just admitted that thing can be used as a weapon! When this battle's over, I'm dismantling it!"  
  
Her hammer sent a shambling human reeling back. "Don't you dare  _touch_  my precious little golem!" she snapped, shooting him a glare before returning her gaze to the fray.

 Klixx sent a firebolt crashing into the bloated stomach of an oncoming foe and conjured a bellowing gust of wind that sent another attacker flying away from the guardian's exposed side.  
"It's not precious," he retorted. "It's a device of pure, unadulturated  _evil!"_  
  
There was a series of moaning cries as a line of Risen ravagers toppled to the ground on mangled legs.  SHU-TY dashed away from their grasping hands and whistled cheerily.  
  
"Good golem!" Khimma cried, blasting two of the undead's heads with her hammer.  
  
Klixx huffed in frustration. "Why I even bother..."  
  
"Watch yer back!" His collar was roughly tugged back as he found himself rising into the air. He briefly protested before a red-leaved head crashed into the stomach of a silent Risen that had stalked behind him.  It flew back as Sylfia plunked him back onto the earth. "Yer welcome," she muttered, wiping rotten matter from her brow as she charged back into the fray.

 

By the tents, the tides of reanimated foes clawed and gasped at the defenders with blind fury. Mesmeric magic shattered on one foe, converging with single-minded fury into cutting shards of psychic energy.   
  
"Get the injured away from the Risen!" Llumin cried. "We can't let the dragon add any more to its army today!"  
  
"It won't." Selana raised her hands to the sky, calling down healing rain and soothing wounds before she summoned winds to speed the injured along. "Go on, get to the center of the camp!"  
  
A piercing, unearthly wail echoed through the camp. Selana felt the blood drain from her face. From the edge of the seawater rose the staggering remains of a norn female, skin gray and flecked with barnacles.  
  
"Do you think that's our leader?" she asked, turning to deflect a blow and searing the face of a snapping Risen. Llumin's sword finished it off before she raised her eyes towards the noise, face grim. 

The norn, brandishing a driftwood scepter, stalked towards them. She howled down at a Vigil recruit who had failed to retreat in time. His screams briefly drowned out hers before they were abruptly cut off. Her rotten face turned towards them as she began to take up her unearthly screams again.  
  
"I'd say that's a yes," Selana muttered, laying down a line of flames to ward off the Risen that rushed their way. Llumin brandished her sword, readying a defensive stance.  
  
"Then let's end her. On your mark...!"


	76. Arc 4, Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Pact prepares to march on Claw Island. Nettle begins a fathomless plot.

 

  Fighting against the Risen, Trahearne had once told Llumin, was like fighting the tides. They would come and go, sometimes in legions and others with little more than a scouting party. Unlike the tides, however, they could show up anywhere, appearing without season or rhyme. You could attempt to divine their next place or time of attack, he had continued, spreading his fingers over a map scored with marks tracking a new invasion, but you could never truly be certain. When they did come, the Risen were like the sea. They were cold, they felt no pain, and they didn’t stop coming until, as if called by some silent song, they simply fell off the attack. The dragon’s minons couldn’t possibly be endless, he had mused, standing and walking from the parchment. Otherwise, why would it retreat instead of simply overwhelming its foes from the start?  
“We have to make it feel pain,” he had said fiercely, eyes glowing. “It must be fed somehow. Stop up the mouth, blind the eyes, and we could possibly take this thing down. But never underestimate it. Never think that you’ve won against its minions until you’ve killed the last one to rise. Even then,” he had said, standing and taking the parchment, “you should always keep an eye open. Set a guard. Don’t stop fighting. We’ve come this far. If we can retake the Island… we might just have a chance.”

 

 _Don’t stop fighting._  

Those words echoed in Llumin’s mind as she let out a cry of pain; a Risen’s claws had dug into her arm. Even when severed from its limb, the hand had only tightened its grip. She beat it off fiercely, swallowing the scream that threatened to burst from her lips. Golden sap oozed from the wounds it made, incisions burning with pain. She grunted as she clasped her palm over it, squeezing to staunch the flow. The Risen leader still stood, blocking and attacking from within a center of Pact warriors with inhuman speed and ferocity.

 “They don’t tire,” she whispered, eyes narrowing. She readjusted her grip on her sword. “Selana, how hold the gates?”  
  
The elementalist summoned a shield of magnetic waves that reflected a putrid cloud of poison from her, sending it hurtling back at the caster. A grasping dead found that her staff was useful for more than magical purposes as she punched its end through the back of its skull, spilling its brains and gagging as it died.  
“They’re holding, but barely,” she grimaced. She let out a cry of pain as the corpse of an asura warrior lurched from the ground, blood still fresh in its veins as it lashed out with dulled claws and snarled at her.

A thin, cold dagger sighed into its neck and easily carved the head free from its holding.  
“We’d best kill our snake properly, then,” Nettle purred, running her tongue down the flat of her blade before melting back into battle. Adam’s eyesockets burned with necromantic energy, chilling foes in front of her and freezing the rotten flesh in place until it was sliced away. “Cut off the head,” her lilting voice echoed through the throng. “And the body will die.”  
  
“Quit dancin’ round the bloody enemies, then,” Sylfia snarled, eyes wild as she horse-collared a foe and crunched its head against another’s, “and getcher sorry-leaved backside at it!”  
  
“Don’t worry, sister,” Nettle sighed, rolling her eyes. “We’ll kill it soon.”  
  
“Soon ain’t enough, we’re losin’ men!”  
  
“Mm, but think of the observations we can make! Trahearne, isn’t that what you would want?”  
  
The Firstborn was already shouting orders at the massed units, directing them towards taking down casters and stripping away the norn’s guard.

Nettle’s lip curled. “Fine, then,” she said, drawing her staff and casting necromantic symbols on the ground. “More experiments for me.”  
  
“You’ll fight alongside us and focus your attacks on the leader.” Gryphon’s cold voice echoed in her ears as the mark on the back of her neck burned and seethed.

 Nettle hissed, slapping at it before whirling around to send a chilling glare at the mesmer. “As you wish,  _Lord_  Radwing,” she growled.

  
  
            The fight against the risen norn was brutal; hordes of undead continued to stagger ravenously from the sea, and even under dozens of blows and bleeding from multiple wounds, she still clung to her stolen life until her resistance finally ebbed out with the rotten blood from her veins.  Few Risen attempted to rise from the sea after that, though the Pact couldn’t help but feel as though this was merely another calm before the storm.  There was no time for celebration; the tents with medical supplies had been rent, and despite the choice to stay slightly off-shore in order to keep the undead as far away from the city as possible, there was still the unwanted chance that some had slipped in; the Lionguard would need whatever help they could get.   
  
            Sylfia slumped against a gore-slicked barrel, breathing ragged.   
  
            “Hey,” Myrie’s voice came from above her; the green-eyed sylvari squinted at the brunette’s silhouette.  “You doing all right?”  
  
            She gave a bark of laughter.  “Oi’ve been burned twice in my life, nearly died both times, found out that there’s a bunch of undead that might just want to kill us all, and decided to follow my Wyld Hunt of whatever-it-is anyway.”  Her thin lips jagged upwards in a fierce smile.  “O’ course I ain’t fine, fleshy, I’ve got breathing troubles and was just battl’in your reanimated companions and whatnot.”  She tipped her helmet down, shadowing her eyes.  “Wake me when I’m sober.”  
  
            Myrie straightened and crossed her arms. “You just got out of battle.  I really doubt you’ve found something to drink already.”  
  
            The warrior’s response was a hollow backfist to the barrel behind her.  “Why d’you think I slumped over ‘ere, eh?  Blood Legion whisky, tha’ll put the spark back in ya.”  
  
            The thief rolled her eyes.  “I’ll give you three gold that says it gets confiscated for use as medical supplies.”   
  
            The helmet tipped back.  “Not if Oi drink it first!  Wh – _HOI!_ ”   
  
            Myrie smirked as she watched two Pact soldiers cart off the barrel without so much as an apology.  She raised an eyebrow and glanced down at Sylfia, who rubbed at her sore shoulder.   
            “Told you.  Don’t worry about the gold.”  She waved her hand.   
  
            The warrior’s eyes narrowed as she rose.  “Why, how uncharacteristically gen’rous of you, Miss Ward.”  
  
            “Eh, I already pickpocketed it from you.  You’re good.”  
  
            “You – !”  
  
            “Well done!”  Trahearne strode into the center of the camp, interrupting Sylfia’s insult. “We have already proven our worth as a fighting team.  Now we know that the Dragon’s force is no longer unstoppable.  The dead will be remembered, but we cannot stop now.”  He looked over the crowd, pride gleaming in his gaze.  “It is time for us to put our combined strengths into action.   Tomorrow, we take back Claw Island!”  
  
            “For the Pact!” cheered Elmfrond, raising a fist.  Other voices echoed the cry.  
  
            “For Sieran!” Khimma and Klixx shouted alongside Llumin.  
  
            “For Forgal!”  Sylfia pounded her fist over her chestplate.  
  
            “For Tybalt!”  Myrie roared, raising a call with the Order.

  
            Nettle stood at the side, silently watching.  Her gaze was unfathomable, though she had echoed Elmfrond’s rallying cry.  She caught Myrie’s stare, and her lips curved, sending a cold chill down the thief’s spine. 

               The necromancer was on their side, she knew, but who could fathom what the Order of Whispers allowed her to study in their pursuit of weaponry against the Elder Dragons?  A thin ripple of spectral smoke flickered around Llumin and Selana’s outlines before disappearing; Nettle’s eyes latched catlike onto them as her fingers slowly rotated Adam in her hand.   
               
  “Oi, we’re movin’ shortly, Ward,” Sylfia barked, shoving an oil-rag into her pack as she hefted it over her shoulder.  “Don’ let whatever Nettle’s doin’ – or not doin’, for that matter – get to yer head, yeah?  She’ll fight for us,” she grunted, steadying her grip on the straps.  “E’en if she won’t like it.”


	77. Arc 4, Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyca Whitestorm and Elmfrond patrol the camp and discuss life.

Lyca Whitestorm grunted as she hefted her pitted, cast-iron cauldron over her shoulder and trudged behind the caravan.  The wolf at her side shook its white-furred head and growled threateningly at a twitching corpse. 

  “It’s dead, Fang,” she said, not pausing from her stride.  She shifted her pack, sliding the cauldron to the other shoulder and turning her head to look behind her.  “Pup,” she called, voice echoing eerily in the sudden silence of the abandoned battlefield.  “How are you holding up back there?”

 “I’m fine,” came the reply.  It was followed by a shout of surprise and two rapid pistol-shots, answered with a gurgling sigh.  “Well,” Elmfrond panted as he jogged towards the norn, “ _now_ I am.”

“Did we miss one back there?”  The woman slowed her pace, allowing the shorter sylvari to keep up.  The wolf chuffed, ears twitching, as he went to his other side.  The thief nodded.

“I still don’t like how the dragon uses its minions,” he muttered.  “Never can tell when one’s really and truly dead.”

“There’s one way.”  Lyca lowered her pack, kneeling by some wounded soldiers.  A fragrant, rich broth was ladled from the heavy pot and into crude earthen bowls, gingerly handed to them.  The soldiers murmured their thanks as they slowly ate the hot stew and as the norn went on.  “You turn the corpses so battered that not even the Elder Dragon could make use of them.”

Elmfrond grimaced, maroon hair-leaves shining dully in the dim light.  Occasionally a passing torch would illuminate his face.  “That seems excessive.”

There was a slight crackle in the air, a growl to the norn’s voice that wasn’t quite normal.  “Pup,” she said, silver-blue eyes like clear ice in the hazy sky, “you were nearly injured by one that someone else may have called excessive.  In war, there is little grace given.”  He shrank back slightly beneath her shadow.  She frowned, the harsh lines fading from her brow.  “I’m sorry, young one,” she sighed.  She lowered a hand to pat his head; he blinked at the touch.  “It is easy to forget that though you are fully-formed, you are still young.”

“That’s why you call me ‘Pup’, isn’t it?”  A grin split his face.  “Because I’m young yet able to pack some ‘bite’?”  He flourished his pistols; Lyca couldn’t keep herself from smiling. 

 “Yes, Elmfrond.  That is part of it.”  Again the great soup-pot swung down.  Elmfrond knew from experience that he could use it as a bathing kettle if he wished, but that Lyca did not appreciate the last time she had returned to find it half-full of lavender petals and steamed sylvari. 

 “What’s the other part?”  He watched as she peered into the kettle, humming thoughtfully. 

She arched a silver brow at him, a quirk to her pale lips.    
 “Like Fang once was as a young thing,” she said, raising the kettle once more and continuing to walk, “you are energetic, innocent, and yet quite full of teeth.”  She gave a meaningful look at his pistols. “But aside from that,” she said, giving a low chuckle, “you are quite fond of food.” 

 “I’m not fat,” he protested, amber eyes flashing. 

“Of course not,” she hummed.  “And I’ve never understood those who would deny a good meal.”

 “It’s war,” he said gingerly, stepping over a root that the advancing Pact had missed.  “I don’t think the troops would like much fancy food out here.”

“You’d be surprised, Pup.”  Another stop.  Two charr raised their bowls in thanks as they tipped them up and drained the rest of the hot broth.  They settled back into their armor, tightening leather belts and polishing swords with more vigor than before. 

 “One of the things that makes me think of home is the meals my father and mother would make to share with us.  It might not be much, but a good roast ram, studded with rosemary and roasted over an open fire or in an oven, always will bring me comfort.  My father would have a little secret about the loins when he would cook them – he would take a long, steel pole and poke dried fruits into the meat before cooking it.  On cold winters,” she said, staring ahead as she followed the caravan, “those moments that tasted of spring would seem brighter than the others, though the sun’s shadow may have lengthened that day.  Food is home, pup,” she smiled.  “It is warmth and comfort and shelter, strength and courage all in one.  So, no, I suppose some may not want to think of that while out here, but for those who do?”  She took a great cloth from her pack, quickly ran it around the kettle’s bulbous interior, and hooked the empty pot onto a fastener.  “For those who want to have a taste of what they fight for, we can give them that.”

  The sylvari looked up at her and nodded slowly. She smiled and pressed a parcel of food into his hand.  
“Now, come on and eat up.  I believe we have a dragon to fight.”


	78. Arc 4, Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Claw Island.

  The Pact fleet swarmed into Claw Island’s overrun harbor, guns firing into the seething tides as the Risen clawed their way above the water, desperate to tear their ways into the ships.  A black-furred charr leaned over the crow’s nest, shouldering a rifle flickering blue with ghostfire.  An experimental weapon, but this field would be a worthy testing ground for it.  A black lip curled over small, yellowed fangs as she squinted amber-colored eyes, aiming the weapon at an undead that had somehow scrabbled up one of the sides of the boats.  The gun gave a thunderous roar, spitting a magic-infused bullet that sent the Risen’s skull splattering into the stormy sky.  
She gave a triumphant snarl as it fell from the rigging.

“Shadowstalker!” 

   Her ears swiveled down; she could barely hear the captain’s voice above the din of battle and the howling storm. 

“Test your guns when they’re pointed _away_ from our ships!” 

“Aye, sir,” she said, holstering the rifle and descending to the deck.  A light flickered across the waters; the ship with the Marshal and some of the spearheading forces had reached the docks; already the path towards the gate was thick with the Dragon’s minions.  Bloodlust, old as the magic her father, that disgrace of a Flame Legion shaman, had guarded, rose in her chest.  He had been a traitor when she was born, sullying her name as a cub.  When she had met him as an adult, he had changed and fought against the Flame Legion to not only save her life, but that of her Legion’s leader, Imperator Smodur the Unflinching.  It was her Iron Legion that had instructed her how to forge the ghostbore musket she held, but it was her father who had shown her how to bend the wrathful flames of the dead Ascalonians into the very bullets that would kill them.     
  Nonetheless, she’d rather not go down as the crackpot charr who sank one of her allied vessels for the simple reason of testing out her new weapon.  The captain’s voice cracked through the storm once more, drawing her gaze from the mesmerizing flicker of the rifle’s blue flame.

“Everyone man the cannons!  Blast apart those barricades!  We’ve got to make sure the Marshal and the rest of the fleet can make it to the island!”

 

  
   Khimma’s blue head bobbed as the Risen that had popped up from the side of the ship exploded in a halo of ghostly fire and maggoty brains.  Regaining her nerve, she rose again and cupped her hands to her mouth.  “Hey, fire _away_ from our ships, bookah!”

Abovedeck, Trahearne held conference with the leaders of the Orders, pausing to give a quick word to Llumin or listen to input from Selana or Gryphon Radwing.  Finally, he nodded, and the leaders disembarked, spell and blade and weaponry at the ready. 

“Cut a line through them!  We have to get through the gate!” he shouted, raising lumbering minions to defend against the vicious occupiers.  

“What then, Marshal?” Nettle leapt back as a Risen norn’s hammer cleft through the air and crashed into the stone where she once stood.  

“If you’ll _please_ stop jittering around, these wires are very delicate,” Klixx snapped, hefting a diamond-shaped prism out of the way of scrabbling claws and nearly tottering over in the process.

“The plan is, we blast through the gate by refitting the lighthouse with the prism Klixx has there,” Llumin said.  She gave a grunt of pain as her blow was parried by an undead asura, who lashed at her with blind fury.   

A fireball incinerated the creature, sending its charred corpse screaming to the ground.  “Afterwards we storm the gates and set up invasion points to reclaim major locations and weaponry,” Selana continued smoothly.  “Once that’s done – ”

“Once that’s done, we get the bloody lieutenant dragon whatsit right in the gob and kill it so the Dragon knows that it ain’t gettin’ this Island back again!”

“Well-put, Sylfia!” Gryphon beamed as he parried a strike and buried his sword to the hilt in a jabbering corpse’s chest.  It sank gurgling to the ground, grey flesh slack as the Pact continued its charge up to the broken lighthouse. 

Klixx and Khimma jogged over to the broken panel; the latter pried away the old panel while the former squinted and started to line up the wires.  Meanwhile, the rest of the group battled desperately against the undead, who had begun to congregate around them at the sight of the new prism.  

“Oh dear,” Klixx muttered, absentmindedly twitching his ear out of Khimma’s hammer range as she golfed a shrieking Risen away from him. “Khimma, are you sure these blueprints are right?  Whoever first made this lighthouse was an idiot!”

“That would be the Priory, cog-brain!” 

“Well, tell them to let us handle any future wiring for laser-lighthouse compatibility, hm?”

“Klixx!”

“All right, all right, I’ve got it!”  He twisted the last two wires together and shoved the prism back into the casing.  The glowing stone at the top of the lighthouse rotated once and flared.  A bright blue beam lanced through the night and blasted through the bony fortifications at the fort’s main gate.  Below, the main bulk of the Pact’s forces gave a cheer.

“We’re through!  Now, forward!  We must recapture the weaponry and repel the undead!”

  
  
  Like two colossal tides crashing against each other, the Pact and the Risen locked into battle with a chaotic roar.  Myrie thumbed the safety on her pistols, took a slow breath, and rolled into the fray.  A Risen gorilla beat its chest and roared down at her, charging forward flanked by others of its kind.  She raised her guns and unloaded a firestorm of lead.  The bullets sunk heavily into the gorilla’s thick skull; the beast gave a gurgle as its charge came to a stumbling halt.  She dodged the skidding corpse and leapt to the side.  One second of peace allowed her mind to catch and race through the possibilities.  

  “Marshal,” she barked, pointing to a parapet.  

Trahearne glanced at her, sending several Risen hurtling back with a wave of magic from Caladbolg.  Understanding lit his gaze.  He nodded, shouting orders to the Pact forces.    
“Keep the Risen contained to the courtyard while you can!  The rest of you – with me!  We’ll occupy that parapet and go from there!  Push them back!”  

  Klixx whooped as he let loose a bolt of chain lightning.  Smells of rotten, charred meat filled the air as undead were sent screeching to their final rests.  Khimma’s shield repelled those that tried to snag him, hammer making short work of those who pushed past.    
  “We’ll help the soldiers in the courtyard!”

Sylfia nocked flaming arrows onto a bow carved from molten metal.  Two Risen servants coughed putrid blood as the smoldering shots lanced through their throats.  In that moment, Myrie could see how the warrior and Nettle were related; in the heat of battle, both sylvari wore the carved, grim smiles of war. It was in the eyes that they differed – while one fought with the fury of a warrior, the other battled with the fanatic light of blood-frenzy.  

  Ascending the steps, Trahearne raised his sword barely in time to block a crushing blow from a Risen abomination.  He grunted, struggling to hold his stance as the towering creature roared in his face.  

  “Llumin!”  Selana cast down a line of fire.  The mesmer leapt forward, enrobing herself in a flaming shield as she crossed the line, rolled behind the abomination, and struck, severing its hamstrings.  The monster gave a horrifying bellow of rage as it sank to its knees.  The Marshal whirled around as the thorn of the Pale Tree bit deeply into its chest.  The Risen gave one final howl of rage before it fell dead.

“Quickly now,” Trahearne gasped, raising necrotic bone wurms as he turned to face the courtyard.  “We must press on!”

“There are trebuches on the eastern and western ramparts that we can retake and repair,” Gryphon said.  “I’ll get some of our fastest workers on them.”

“And I’ll assist with the cleansing of prey.”  Nettle switched her weapons to a staff with three fused skulls.  The glow from Adam’s eyes faded, reappearing in the lowest of the three.  “We will end them,” she said.  The glow in her eyes mirrored the skull’s and the necrotic marks she cast on the ground.  “Drag the enemies into the marks,” she snarled. 

Llumin’s illusions strode across them harmlessly, fighting stances mirroring the mesmer’s.  The Risen surrounding the broken trebuchet turned on them, snarling and firing poisoned darts.  For a moment, the flickering images flinched and stumbled.  Then, at a single silent command from the sylvari, they converged on a target, throwing their arms open and shattering in psychedelic clouds of purple butterflies. The undead snarled, clawing at their scalps and eyes as they stumbled forward in a blind fury.  The moment one flayed foot crossed one of Nettle’s marks, magic exploded upward, seething, putrescent lines that lashed into their skin, leaching poison and stealing strength.  Myrie’s daggers finished the weakened foes as Priory engineers set up around the trebuchet.  

“Go on,” one of them bellowed.  “We’ll keep this place clear!”  


They traveled through the occupied fort, struggling against the Risen in similar, deadly fashion until all three trebuchets were repaired and the courtyard’s tide finally seemed to turn.  Though members of the Pact would fall and turn in battle, their forces were sufficient enough to put down any former allies and cleave through long-dead foes alike.  Myrie saw more than one look of horror turn to an enraged grimace as the living fought against allies that had fallen before the enemies’ blades seconds before.  

“Courtyard’s clear!”  Klixx shouted.  He incinerated one final scrabbling Risen as he turned to look towards the broken wall. 

An earth-shaking roar ripped through the air, causing Myrie to stumble back.  Descending from the storming sky was a hideous dragon whose size towered above all but the highest parapets of the ruined fort.  

“Blightghast,” she heard Trahearne murmur, awe and uncertainty in his voice.  He leapt over the parapet’s railing and landed heavily next to the other soldiers.  “Fight smart!  Repel the monster, and we’ll finally reclaim Claw Island from Zhaitan’s forces!”  
  
  
Cannonfire and trebuchet blasts hurtled through the air, pockmarking the already ruined ground.  Blightghast landed heavily on the cliffside, bloated flesh writing with maggots half as high as Khimma.  Its face held no eyes, but the rotted pits of its skull seemed to glare with cold malice nonetheless as it stared down at the Pact, reared back, and opened its mouth. 

“Get back!”  Trahearne ordered.  “It’s about to breathe poison!”  

Seconds later, with a bellowing roar, clouds of noxious fume roiled across the land.  Grass withered, insects died in-flight, and soldiers turned to flee in terror.  Khimma’s shield of shimmering guardian magic flickered twice before it dissolved in the dragon’s acidic magic.    
She coughed, eyes watering.  

“Help!”  

The dragon’s claws dug into the ground.  Bony fingers lanced from the soil, slashing and grasping at those who neared them.    The asura’s grip on her hammer faltered as she limped out of range of one of the rotten appendages.  She opened her mouth to shout again. 

“Keep your mouth shut,” came a cold hiss.  

She felt the poison drain from her veins.  Khimma blinked rapidly and turned to thank her savior.  The words withered in her throat.  Nettle straightened, licking a coil of magic from her lips and grimacing.  

“Radwing wants you alive,” the sylvari said.  A Risen fish-head burst from below the ground, breathing putrid clouds and sucking prey towards its mouth.  The necromancer turned her dagger in her hands, veins pulsing with light as she carved the eyes from its head and pared the skullcap from its rotten flesh.    
“Break the bones of Blightghast’s fingers unless you want to be flayed.”

 

More than one Pact soldier was sent hurtling down a hole that the grasping fingers made, screams ending in series of disturbing crunches and wet pops.  Sylfia’s arrows lanced like stars through the night sky, burning shots that loosed ichor from the lieutenant’s wounds.  All the while, the thunderous strikes from the trebuchets crashed onto the dragon like the fists of the gods themselves.  
The dragon gave another roar as a blast from the artillery fire sent it scrabbling back on the cliffs.

“We have it on the run!” Trahearne cheered.  “Come on, one last push!”  

“Whatever we’ve got to do, it has to be fast,” Myrie murmured. Blightghast looked as if it was about to flee, and she knew the island wouldn’t be able to survive another assault in whatever undoubtedly-short time the dragon would have to recover.  She braced herself against the billowing winds its wings made.  Once more she looked back at Selana and Llumin.  Her eyes widened.

  Two spectral figures cast spells alongside them.  Dierdre Firestone’s ghost turned aside envenomed arrows from the enemy while Arcon lent his power to his daughters’ magic. Even in death they protected their children.  Myrie was shaken from the shock of the image by a final scream from Zhaitan’s lieutenant.  Fires burned in the hollow, dripping space of its chest cavity where the relentless shots from the fort’s rebuilt weaponry had finally weakened the monster.  It turned from the cliff-face, grasping once more desperately at the air before it coughed, writhed, and finally plunged lifeless into the roiling depths of the sea.  Towering fountains of water gushed skyward from its impact.  Myrie braced herself for a soaking, yet when she opened her squinting eyes, she saw the water sloughing from an ephemeral shield.  Selana smiled down at her.  

“This battle is finally over.  We’ve won.”     
  



	79. Arc 4, Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Pact's hierarchy is discussed. Llumin and Trahearne muse on the aftermath of the battle.

The celebration in the reclaimed fort was dimmed only slightly by the losses incurred by the Pact.  For the most part, there were shouts of joy and murmurs of surprise that the three Orders could have managed to work so well.    
One historian in the Priory camp didn’t sound particularly convinced of any future victories.  She frowned, tossing amber hair over her shoulders.  “You realize this ‘pact’ only has a one in three-thousand seven-hundred and twenty chance of succeeding?” She crossed her arms, arching a skeptical brow at Llumin as she walked by.  
The magister stopped in her tracks and took a breath.  She turned.  “You really think,” she finally said, voice even, “that we’re going to fail even after all of this?”  The historian stepped back, stammering.  Llumin gestured at the amassed tents and soldiers.  “We may be just getting used to working with the other Orders, but look around you.  We are likely the largest collaboration of forces and resources that Tyria has ever seen!  If Trahearne’s leading us, I’ll take that one of thousands.  We’re the only ones who can help him succeed, and he’s the only one who can bring us to Orr.”  Her gaze softened. “I understand your doubts, historian,” she said.  “But in some things, we must have faith.  Hope is just a sunrise away.”  She clasped her shoulder and smiled.  “Now, go rest up.”    


“Hey.”    
Llumin turned, brow furrowing.    
“Excuse me, I can’t quite – ah, there you are.  Hello, Myrie.  You’re quite a bit shorter than most humans I am used to speaking with.  I apologize that I didn’t see you right away.”  
The thief made a mental note to steal the mesmer’s teacups.  The sylvari beamed innocently.    
“Is there a problem?  You seem rather stressed.”   
“Well, considering we just fought a literal army of the Elder Dragon’s undead and finally managed to retake the fort, I would say I’m doing quite well, actually.  But yeah, there is something I’ve been thinking about.”  Myrie grimaced.  “You know Nettle’s a tenuous ally at best, right?  The only reason she hasn’t killed us all or at least experimented on most of us is due only to Gryphon Radwing’s seal.  But before your parents’ – your human parents…”  Myrie cleared her throat.  “Point is, Sylfia pretty much told me that the only reason you and Selana are safe from experimentation is because Lord and Lady Firestone’s ghosts have been royally messing up her experiments that aren’t vital to the Whispers’ operations.  Now, I don’t know much about necromancy – or any magic at all, really, I just take stuff when I can and usually go on my merry way – but…” She rubbed the back of her neck.  “Just … be careful, all right?  Nettle’s not the kind to forgive a grudge or go under someone’s thumb for long without trying something awful.  Just because your parents are ghosts doesn’t mean they’re safe – especially not from her.”  
Llumin’s wide eyes stared down at her, worry etching her features.  “How would she even be able to do anything to them?  The only kind of ghost-binding I’ve heard of requires a form of crystal used in asuran golemancy.”  
Myrie huffed.  “I think it’s that skull, Adam, or whatever she calls it.  Like I said, I don’t know much about magic, but even I can tell that thing isn’t normal.  Most times I would brush off sylvari talking to skulls as just some weird plant thing, but with her, I can’t help but feel that it might actually be talking somehow.” The thief rubbed her neck, glancing around.  Her street-rat senses were tingling.  Were they being watched?  “Like I said, be careful.  Sometimes fair-weather allies are worse than steady foes.”  
Llumin inclined her lavender-leaved head, briefly reminding the human of the mesmer’s noble sister.  “Thank you, Myrie,” she said.  “I will let Selana know.”  She glanced up at the parapets.  Trahearne stood at the top.  Noticing her stare, he smiled and waved, gesturing for her to follow him.  
  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, stepping aside.  “I do believe that the Marshal wishes to speak with me.”  
“Go on.”  Myrie palmed the satchels of glittering dust and pirate doubloons she had taken from Llumin and smiled.  “I’ll be down with the Vigil if you need anything.”      
  
  
  
Llumin ascended the stairs and gave Trahearne a polite greeting.  When she finally stood by him above the massed armies of the Pact, any coherent thoughts fled her mind.  So many lives stood before them. The sylvari looked below at the amassed forces below in silence while the soft touch of rosy sunset painted the rubble of the battlegrounds with its gentle hands, dulling the harsh edges of the fallen and the broken structures. Was this truly the army that defeated Zhaitan’s lieutenant?  Would this be the force that could end it all?    
“The tides of history have changed, Trahearne,” she said softly.

“Indeed.”  He shook his head.  “A part of me can’t quite believe this is real.”   
“Many others fail to believe it still.”  She smiled.  “I suppose we’ll have to prove them wrong.”    
The Firstborn was quiet.  The sword Caladbolg glowed dully in the setting sun.  He finally spoke as if waking himself from a dream.  
“Zhaitan waits at the center of Orr, surrounded by a nation of undead. The battle to destroy the dragon will not be easy—but for the first time in a long while, I believe it can be won.  I’ve never seen Tyria so united before.”  
“And we must keep pressing on.”  Llumin’s eyes shone. “Look at what you’ve helped us accomplish, Trahearne. The Orders would never have listened to someone who was one of their own.  Imagine,” she said, laughing, “a Vigil warrior trying to take orders from a Priory magister?  That would be something, wouldn’t it?”  
Trahearne’s jaw shifted. “That may not be too far off the mark, Llumin.  I cannot possibly direct all of these people by myself.”  He held up a hand.  “Your faith in me is inspiring, but there are some times where we have to realize what we can and cannot do, and I cannot possibly manage this force singlehandedly.”  He leaned over the parapet wall, resting his elbows on the rough stone and letting his hands dangle loosely below.  “Your companions – would you say they are trustworthy?”  
Llumin blinked.  “Well, the consensus is that everyone aside from Nettle seems faithful enough.  You may be in for a surprise if you ask Sylfia what her next tactic is, or if you leave Khimma or Klixx in charge of an excavation, but overall, yes – the Knights of Gryphon are as trustworthy as an ally could hope for.  Why?”  
Trahearne straightened, clasping his hands behind his back.  “As the designated Marshal of this Pact, I can only do so much.  Already I know that there are those whose concerns will go unvoiced or whose plans may be overlooked if there are no in-betweens for the Orders and myself.  I will need commanders to help where I cannot, people to direct operations and lead battles on the ground.  I know Orr and its terrors,” he said; a cynical smile twisted his lips.  “Not people.” 

They were silent a moment, staring down at the forces below.  Even now, Priory talked freely with Whispers Agents, Vigil spoke with Priory, and Whispers conversed with other Vigil warriors.  
“I would like you to be one of my foremost commanders,” Trahearne said.  “I have known you longer than most here; even in the Grove, your talent was apparent.  I would not ask this of you if I did not believe you were worthy. You, of course,” he said quickly, “have every right to refuse. This position will not be easy.  You would report directly to me, and along with the others who accept the position of Commander, you would act as the Pact’s hands and feet while keeping in mind the lives of those beneath you.”  
Llumin tilted her head.  “Would I still be required to report to Steward Gixx?”  
“No, and none of the other commanders would be under the jurisdiction of their or any other Order, either.  That would leave too much room for accusations of sectional influence.  Your place will be by my side to keep the orders unified.”  
“I… I am honored,” Llumin said.  Her brows furrowed. “But where do we go from here?”  
Trahearne smiled, sunset-gold eyes crinkling.  “That directness and humility will take you far, my friend.”  He turned to look back down at the armies below.  “I know of a ruined fort on the coast of Orr.  It will take some effort to make it defensible, but from there, we can strike at the heart of Zhaitan and its forces.”  
“Well, a ruined fort won’t be terribly inspiring without a name,” Llumin said.  “Do you have any idea what we shall call it?”  
Trahearne blinked, a flash of surprise passing over his face.  “Honestly,” he said, “I’ve spent so much time preparing for Claw Island; I didn’t really devote much thought to it.”  He rubbed the back of his neck.  “Would you have any suggestions?”  
Llumin pondered.  “We are three forces coming together,” she mused.  “Wouldn’t it be fitting that we would work from Fort Trinity?”  
“Fort Trinity.”  Trahearne smiled.  “That’s perfect.  I’ll set about recruiting other commanders and send word when the invasion force to Orr is ready.”  He bowed at the waist.    
“I will await your word, Marshal Trahearne.”   She gave a salute and strode back down.


	80. Arc 4, Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Traveling Circus takes a short break before heading back into the fields. Llumin learns of Myrie's concerning talents.

“Never thought I’d think fondly of Lion’s Arch,” Myrie sighed, smiling as she counted out coins from her bag and slid them across the scarred wood of the bar table.    
“Maybe that’s because of your odd ‘talent’?”  Llumin watched with growing awe as the thief removed four earrings, seven pocket-watches, two bracelets, and one concerningly-purple rabbit’s-foot charm.  They stared at the dismembered limb for a moment; Llumin raised concerned brows at the brunette.   
“Don’t ask me where I got that; I claim no responsibility for these hands,” Myrie said helplessly.  
“Is that ring at least yours?”  Selana tried desperately to ignore the twitching in her temple that seeing the thief’s stash conjured.    
“Yeah, you noticed?”  Myrie displayed the jewelry proudly.  “Gryphon says that if I keep this up, I’ll be a master jeweler in no time!”  
“A thief who steals jewelry and sells her own.”  Selana shook her head with a wry smile.  “There’s something ironic about that.”  
“Hey, are you feeling all right?”  The thief squinted at her.  “Something’s different about you.  New haircut?  Sudden increase of human normalcy in interactions?”  
“Oh, please.”  The elementalist rolled her eyes.  “Getting away from Divinity’s Reach is a nice change of pace.  Here, I’m not viewed with awe and fear as ‘Lady Firestone.’  I’m just… me.”  She closed her eyes as she sat down, sighing contentedly.  “I could get used to the anonymity.”  
“Yeah, until someone decides to try stealing something from you or calls you names.”  Myrie drew herself up to her full height in the chair, adopting an imperious tone.  “Excuse you, I am The Great Lady Firestone, last of the human line of House Firestone and daughter of …”  Her monologue withered under Selana’s cool gaze.  The thief cleared her throat awkwardly and pulled at her collar.  “Yeah, like that.  Ehrm. Sorry.”  
“Apology accepted,” the elementalist said frostily.  
“So!  Llumin, what’s the word from Tree-nerd?”  Myrie asked, hoping to shift the attention from herself.  Sylfia walked behind and cuffed the human on the back of the head.    
“That’s Trahearne, and for wot he’s doing, Oi’d show ‘im a bit more respect.”  The warrior leaned back in her rough, wooden chair and kicked her heels up onto the table, nursing a mug of ale larger than her head.  “Man’s a bookie, but ‘e’s not a bad ‘un,” she grunted.  “Seems to ‘ave a good ‘ead for tactics and can even ‘old himself in battle.  I mightn’t be able to understand all of what he says, but I can respect what he does.”   
“Yes, yes.  Anyhow, any news?”  
“Yes, actually.”  Llumin twisted to the side, reaching into her pack and pulling out a delicate parchment.  She unrolled it, blue eyes briefly flicking over the elegant handwriting.    
“Do tell me; is it your infatuation with the Marshal or lingering battle-fatigue that seems to require so many readings of the same letter?”    
“Oh, shut up, Nettle.  I’m just getting a refresher.”    
The necromancer sneered.  “Most people get a refresher by the second time they’ve read something.  _You’ve_ read that at least five times.”  
“Well, some of us like to make extra sure that we’re delivering the correct information,” the mesmer sniffed.    
Nettle rolled her eyes.  “If you need me, just ask Gryphon.  I’m sure he or the other Whispers will know where I am,” she said bitterly before striding out.  
“Good riddance,” Sylfia muttered into her mug.   
“As I was about to say,” Llumin’s gentle voice had taken on an edge of impatience, “Trahearne has sent word that we are to meet in Fort Concordia in the Bloodtide Coast.”  
“Wait, as in the Bloodtide Coast that’s all the way over in the Shiverpeaks?”  Myrie grimaced.  “I should’ve known the missive to wait for more orders in L.A. wasn’t a ‘hey, we know you’ve just saved the city, have fun’ thing!”  
“Well, it’s not _too_ terribly cold where it’s located,” Llumin said as she unrolled a map from her pack.  “If you could hold down those corners…?  Thank you.  Trahearne says that some of the caves in the Rankor Ruins have been overrun with Risen as of late.  He’s concerned that their presence correlates directly with a dwarven artifact the Priory recently discovered.  Whatever it is, the dragon wants it.  This is a perfect opportunity for the Pact to clear out the area and recapture whatever is in those caves.”  
“And doubtless to rescue whoever’s going to get trapped in there from the time we leave to the time we arrive,” Myrie sighed.  She drained the last of her rice wine and plonked the empty mug on the table.  “I was getting tired of this place, anyway.  Who serves good Canthan wine in a wooden _mug_?”  



	81. Arc 4, Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin investigates the Orders' opinions on the Pact and its leadership. The Dragon extends its reach again.

Once more the balmy air of Lion’s Arch gave way to the frigid climes of the Shiverpeak mountains.  Myrie thanked the gods for whoever had the patience and tenacity to build the bridges and roads that led to the fort and cursed the creatures that attacked them in equal measure for slowing down their travels.  Thankfully, it was only a few days that were required for the trip from Hoelbrak to the fort. Yet by the time they arrived, a familiar, unwelcome miasma was slowly settling over the stone parapet.

“Balthazar’s beard,” Myrie swore, throwing her hands in the air. “What did I tell you?”

“There’s no need for panic or frustration just yet,” Llumin said, though her own expression showed both.

A short, armored asura with light brown skin and ruddy hair walked out of the gates and saluted the group.  “Commander Llumin, good to see you. I’m Warmaster Efut of the Vigil.  I see you’ve brought some of the other potential candidates?”

“I will work alongside Llumin if it is possible, but should it be required that I go elsewhere,” Selana nodded, “I would be willing to accept the title.”

“So much for anonymity,” Myrie muttered.  Llumin gave her a look.  

“What happened to _your_ invitation?” 

“That thing?  Threw it in the firepit.  The only way they’ll get me to command is if we have some seriously massive casualties – which hopefully won’t be happening.”  

“Myrie!” 

“What?  I’ve already led once,” the thief said bitterly.  “Making choices as to who lives and who dies isn’t exactly my strong suit.”  Her fingers played with the ring at her neck.  “I’m just here to make sure the job gets done.”    

Llumin looked at Selana in confusion; the elementalist gestured that she’d tell her later. 

Warmaster Efut glanced from one woman to the other and cleared her throat awkwardly.    
“Well, I’m sure Trahearne will understand your reasons for accepting and/or denying the position.  He’s just inside the fort.”  


 

“We’ll need the best of the best to help with our weaponry,” he was saying, back turned to them as they entered.  A norn and sylvari stood alongside a birdlike tengu, who all were listening intently to what he had to say.  “From what I’ve heard, you are all the best smiths among your people.  Your works here will be remembered throughout the ages.”  

The norn puffed out his chest.  “My works even _now_ are garnering attention, Marshal.  These works will launch my name straight into legend!”

The gray-skinned sylvari next to him rolled his eyes.  “I’m sure that your _attitude_ is legendary, Beigarth.  We’ll see about sagas when our inventions actually work.”

The tengu clicked his beak.  “Occam is right.  This Pact and the world around us will only recall our tales with glory if we are proven worthy of them.”

Efut marched to Trahearne and gave a light cough.  The Marshal turned.  Catching sight of Llumin and the others, he smiled.  “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, leaving them to their bickering.  “My friends!  It is good to see you.”

Selana bowed.  “I have accepted the position of sub-commander as outlined in your letter, Trahearne.  Though I am aware that I would report to you, for the time being, if possible, I would prefer to be paired alongside my – ”

Llumin nearly caught the word _sister_ before Selana did.  The noblewoman cleared her throat.  “Alongside my sylvari companion, Llumin.”

“Oi, wot about me?  I’m a sylvari companion,” Sylfia groused.  “Though, to be perfectly honest, I don’t mind too much ‘bout your decision.”

“Ah, yes, Wyldcaller.  What was your decision?” Trahearne asked.  Myrie could see that the smile on his face was strained.  Three days’ worth of liquor had managed to somehow fit in the warrior’s pack and even more shockingly her stomach; the thief suspected that Sylfia’s state of nigh-constant inebriation was a point of contention in her letter’s writing.  The flame-colored sylvari waved a hand.

“Nah, not really my thing,” she sighed, shrugging as she dangled her hands over the haft of her hammer, which rested over her shoulders.  “Oi’m not bad in a fight, I know that much,” she said, “but I’d rather be directed where to go than anything else.  I ain’t a commander sort – but I’ll help where Oi’m needed,” she grinned.

 Trahearne barely managed to suppress the expression of relief that washed over his face as he discreetly stepped back.

“Well, now that that’s been addressed,” he said, turning to Llumin.  “I’m sure you know who these are at least by name.  Izu Steelshrike, Beigarth, and Occam are all the best metalworkers and magic-crafters of their races.  They have agreed to help us with building supply carriers and ships for the Pact.”  He lowered his voice.  “And I hope that it is either out of the generosity of their heart or the pride of their heads that they will keep their word.  And speaking of which,” he ascended to a small parapet where a tiny desk was squashed; Llumin followed him up the rickety stairs and waited for him to continue. “I would like to know what the troops’ opinion of me is.  I’ve tried asking them directly, but …” He rubbed his neck.  “They all seem to be avoiding my questions, or playing them off.” 

Llumin raised a brow.  “So you would like a mesmer to see if she can detect any lies?”

“I would like to see if my Commander and friend can discern the truth,” he said firmly, holding her gaze.  “I need to know my weaknesses as much as my strengths, Llumin.  As with any study, without proper preparation, I may very well fail in this role.  I want to be worthy of this Pact’s hopes and dreams.”

Llumin gave him a sad smile.  “Caladbolg can’t be wielded by just anyone, you know.  You’re not alone in this endeavor, Trahearne.  I’ll report back shortly.”  
  
  
  
She had to admit that Trahearne’s observations were accurate; the troops were more relaxed when he wasn’t around.

  
“Sure he’s nice enough, I suppose,” she heard one sigh, “but he gives me the creeps!  I mean, who goes around studying _Orr_?_  More importantly, who goes to that godsforsaken land and decides to go back?”

Llumin ignored him and walked over to his superior, Tactician Art of the Vigil.  

  
“Excuse me, Tactician,” Llumin said, saluting.  He returned the gesture. 

“I didn’t know that there wasn’t some sort of fancy protocol for the new Commander of the Pact.  At least I know that I won’t have to bow, at least.” 

“I was unaware that word had traveled so quickly,” she said. The soldier shrugged.

“We may not be members of the Priory or Whispers, ma’am, but Vigil soldiers are hardly as dense as they seem.  You enter with a group and are drawn aside to speak in private with this new Marshal of ours?  Well, adds up pretty quickly.  Your presence here merely confirms suspicions.” 

Llumin quickly recovered from her surprise.  “I merely have some questions for you.  What are your impressions of the Pact and Marshal?”

The human raised a suspicious brow.  “Trying to have an interrogation?”

Llumin shook her head.  “Merely seeing how the troops feel.”

He sighed.  “Well, as long as this is anonymous – it _will_ be anonymous, right?  Between you and me, I don’t have many concerns about the Pact.  We obviously fight well together despite our size.  But Trahearne?  I’ve never had a scholar lead an army before.”  He crossed his arms.  “I’m just not sure he’s up to the task. And, no offense, but Claw Island was small. You may have kept your cool in that situation, but compared to what we’ll be going up against…”  He rubbed the back of his neck.  “Two scholars leading an army of this size with this many lives tends to make a military man skittish.”

“Does your Order representative share these views?”  

Warmaster Efut strode to the front, soldiers saluting her as she walked by.    
“I can speak for myself, Commander.”  She held her posture with confidence.   “And I would be lying if I said that I was completely without concern.  Building an HQ in Orr is a smart move, especially for a civilian. But,” she said, one ear twitching, “before I commit any more troops to this ordeal, I want to make sure that he can lead under fire.  Art and I are of the same mind on this: one victory does not win a war.  If he wants our trust, he – and you – will have to earn it.” 

Llumin felt an uneasy knot of worry crawl into her stomach.  “Thank you for your honesty, Ma’am,” she said.  She took her leave and went to the next camp. 

 

  
She found Doern Valasquez, the Order of Whispers’ representative, in the corner diagonally-opposite of Tactician Art’s, flanking the left side of the fort’s entrance.  He, too, expressed his own concerns.  The fort was, in his opinion, too obvious of a target for the Dragon and its minions.  Furthermore, he was uncertain about the integrity of maintaining the Pact’s unity. 

“Between you and me,” he admitted, “alliances of this size are fragile creatures.  Forming this one was difficult.  Maintaining it for long, I worry, may prove to be an impossibility.”

  
Wynnet Fairhaired, the Priory’s representative, was the last one Llumin sought. 

“I will speak to you as an equal in this situation,” she said, “as we both are magisters of the Priory.  I can appreciate Trahearne’s idea of placing a fort in Orr, but I worry about our long-term prospects.  He has the knowledge we need, but…”

“You worry that the soldiers and spies may not listen to him.” 

The norn laughed.  “I see you’ve already spoken with the others.  Is my worry ill-placed?”

Llumin sighed.  “Not entirely,” she muttered.  “And I worry of my own qualifications, Magister.  Who has heard of two scholars leading a war?”

The spokesperson smiled, placing a hand on Llumin’s shoulder reassuringly.  “By the end this is all over, all of Tyria will have heard of it.  Your legend is just beginning, my friend.  You will prove worthy of it, one way or another.”  
  
  
  
Trahearne stood outside the fort, watching the waves quietly lap against the shore.  Every now and again, an amphibious skelk would appear from the dusky shadows and strike at the water, disappearing back into the shade with a wriggling fish in its mouth.

  How like the Dragon it was, he thought.  To the unobservant, the skelk blended in seamlessly with the shadows, waiting to strike.  Those who had studied them would know their signs – a water-like ripple in the air, a slight hiss as the creature prepared to attack, a deepening of the shadows in which the minnows made their refuge.  Did the colonies of fish prepare themselves against the attacks of their predator?  Did they resign themselves to being prey?

 The smell of rot and of musty, drowned magic was faint on the air.  Zhaitan’s minions would show themselves soon.  His ears perked at the light whisper of his commander’s footfalls as she approached, rousing him from his reverie. 

“So,” he said with a dry smile, “how are the casualties of the Pact’s reputation?” 

“Well, all things considered,” Llumin said as she came to a stop by his side, “morale isn’t as bad as it could be. Some are hopeful towards the Pact and its role in Tyria’s future, while some wonder if it will manage to survive long without tearing itself apart.  Others are uncertain as to your leadership capabilities.”

“All valid concerns,” he admitted.  “Did you manage to find out what they think of you as Commander?”

“I think they’ll grow to like me.”  Llumin’s teasing smile faltered.  “As many doubts as they have towards you, they’re as worried if not more about your choice in appointing me as commander.”   She gave a thoughtful hum.  “There’s not much I could do with my credentials, I suppose, but if you’d like, I’m sure I could tell them some stories of your battles against the Nightmare Court and Risen while I was in the Grove, or perhaps -- .”

“A kind gesture, Valiant, but unnecessary.  We must win our troops’ trust through our own battles of today, not the wars of the past.”  
The mesmer sighed.  “I fear we’ll have more of that than we’d care to admit, Trahearne.  Especially if the atmosphere is indicating what I think it is.”

  
“Somebody help!  You’ve got to help them!”  A worn-down human stumbled, scrabbled towards the fort where the Vigil stood guard.  “They were – too many – under attack…!”  

“Easy there, hold on,” Myrie said quickly, holding up her hands.  “Could you tell us – oh great, he’s passed out.”

Selana conjured an orb of water.  “He’s in shock.  Sounds like he was running from Grenth’s reapers…”  She released the liquid over his face and stepped back as the blanched runner revived, sputtering and blinking rapidly.  “What happened?  Are you all right?”  

“I’m fine – barely got away to let you know…” He ran his tongue over his lips, eyes darting around.  “The Priory recently discovered an artifact in the caves.  Before we could get it out, we lost part of our team.  Some of them are trapped in there with the undead, and the others are stranded just inside the ruins.  I don’t know what the Dragon would want with this thing, but if we don’t get to the team soon…”

Selana straightened and turned towards the back gate, where Llumin and Trahearne jogged in from their conversation.  

“The Priory’s team has gone missing.  We’ve got to recover them and whatever they found before the Dragon destroys both.  What is your plan, Marshal?”


	82. Arc 4, Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Traveling Circus attempt to rescue trapped Priory members from dwarven ruins. Myrie discovers explosives, and everyone else learns to appreciate the fact that she was not made aware of them sooner.

The party was small, but efficient.  Llumin, Selana, Myrie, Trahearne, and Sylfia all quickly readied themselves and were joined by Agent Zrii, an asuran demolitions expert from the Order of Whispers.  
“I’ve heard you’re the ones working with the Skull,” the agent said, priming a set of grenades and tossing them at a horde of Risen that rose from the ruins.  She was unable to hide the gleeful grin that followed the resulting explosion of gore and chum.  “I’ve got to admit, I’m pretty curious how that is!”  
Myrie’s pistols let off a report as she sidestepped a risen hylek’s blowdarts.  “The Skull?  Who’s…?”  Her eyes bulged.  She spun around and neatly kicked a corpse’s head from its body like a rotten ball.  “You have Nettle be creepy enough as is, then you decide to give her the brilliant codename of _Skull_?”  
“Well, Whispers likes using its weapons more when they’ve got fun names,” she said cheerily.  “And it’s better than using any of the other names she’s been known by…”   She crouched by the now-silent dwarven ruins, thin black lips curving downward.  “No survivors here, Trahearne,” she reported.  The thief’s concern returned with interest.  
“You didn’t wait to see that _before_ you started throwing explosives?”   
Zrii frowned up at her.  “Listen, I don’t know if you Vigil are aware of how to predict Risen attacks, but at the Order of Whispers, we’re all highly trained to – ”  
“Yeah, I don’t care, duck.”  
The asura’s yellow eyes widened, but she complied just in time to avoid having a vaulting Sylfia barrel over her head. A Risen krait had been hiding behind the bushes in front of them; it reared back in surprise at its discovery, dismembered jaws gaping in a furious snarl as heavy Ascalonian stone turned its skull to paste.  
“Might want to work on your ambush-noticing skills,” the sylvari said, brushing off rotten flesh.  Her ears pricked.  She half-turned to look behind her as Selana unsheathed her staff.    
“You ‘eard those shouts, too?”  
“The Priory did have two dig sites,” Zrii muttered, casting her eyes towards the top of a ruin-pocked hill.  “The first one’s up there. It should be mostly abandoned, but I’ll make sure that any personnel we had there are evacuated.  I know you’ll need to probably blow your way into the cave ruins, so take these.”  She removed a satchel of small explosives and handed them to Myrie.  “You seemed pretty quick-fingered with those pistols, Miss Ward, so just for now, I’ll entrust these to you.  If you want to prime the charge, just twist the red top to the left, set the whole bunch down by the desired exploding point, and book it before these things blast you to smithereens.”  
Myrie stared dubiously at the bag of death.  “And how many seconds of time would that give me?”  
Zrii scratched behind her ears.  “Well, I’ve primed these with the fleet of foot and large of blast in mind, so if I’m being generous, I’d give you no more than ten seconds.”  
“Ten--?!”  
Selana placed a hand on Myrie’s shoulder.  “I’ll see if I can help convince the winds to bend to your favor,” she said.  
“I have a better idea,” Llumin said.  She glanced from one to the other.  “I propose using one of my mesmeric portals; if we time it right, we’ll be out of the blast’s range as soon as possible.”  
Trahearne’s brow furrowed.  “Are you certain?  I know you said you’ve been working on it, but – ”  
“I can do it, Trahearne.” The mesmer’s mouth was set in a grim line.  “You said it yourself that we haven’t much time.  The portals will last long enough.”   
“Well,” Myrie said as she hefted the bomb bag carefully over her shoulder, “speed is of the utmost importance.  All right, Llumin, let’s take your path.  If I get stuck in some weird other dimension, I’ll at least know who to blame.”  
  
  
  
There was a strange music about the portals, an unusual flickering in the air, as if the fabric of reality itself flexed and warped to Llumin’s bidding.  Which, Myrie supposed, it did. Although separated by birth, looking at the sylvari’s determined expression, the thief could still see the remnant of blood that bound her and Selana together.  ­That Firestone frown, the thief thought.  She stifled the giggle that threatened to burst from her lips; to have the mesmer lose her focus now would be catastrophic.  In a flash, she and Llumin were at the cave’s entrance, where rubble had collapsed the opening.  The sylvari stood a pace behind her, staff at the ready.    
“The portal won’t last forever,” she said.  Her shoulders shook with exertion.  “I’ll do what I can to keep it open, but please hurry.”  
“Yeah, I’ll do that, just let me make sure I don’t accidentally blow myself up in the meantime,” Myrie said shortly.  She cursed under her breath.  Which bomb was the primer in this gods-forsaken snarl of powder?  She couldn’t read asuran with its squiggly mathematic symbols and letters, and her eyes throbbed from stress.  She gulped and tugged at the ring on her neck nervously.  If sight would do her no good, instinct would have to do.  She closed her eyes and reached in the bag, fingers dancing over the orbs until she finally closed her hand over one.  
“You have to hurry!”  Llumin’s gasp came through clenched teeth.  The portals’ music was growing dissonant, and sharp, ominous crackling underscored the chaotic rhythm.    
Myrie cranked the bomb sharply and set it down.  A set of quick clicks followed the twist.  “I got it!”    
She raced back to the flickering exit portal and closed her eyes as the ground beneath her lurched and flickered.  In a second the cave’s entrance was in the distance.  She staggered back to regain her footing.  Llumin gave a low groan and pressed her free hand to her forehead with a grimace.  Myrie stared at the entrance, stomach churning.  Those explosives were the only way in there.  Did she prime them proper --   
An earthshaking explosion sent the group stumbling and reeling backwards.  Myrie dove behind a collapsed section of ruin, peeking over the top when the echo had finally started to fade from her ears.  A wide grin slowly split her face.    
“Did you see that?” she crowed.  “What a blast!”  
“And Oi’m suddenly very glad you never took up engineering,” Sylfia muttered, squinting one green eye.  “C’mon, Oi can smell those Risen from here.  Let’s go save our crew while there’s still crew to save.”

 

The caves were low-ceilinged and musty, scented with the thick odor of rot and rancid magic.  Selana’s flames illuminated some of the shadows that clung thickly to the air, burning and driving back the Risen that lurched towards her and the group.  Eventually the gargling curses and screams of the undead became a grim background to the chaos of battle and its desperate rhythm.    
“Where could they be?  Do you think they held up in here?”  Myrie’s hands ached and her calves throbbed with pain.    
“We haven’t seen any fresh corpses wearing Priory coats,” Trahearne said. Caladbolg’s faint blue glow lit his face with an unsettling light.  “The chances of the dragon’s minions staying after getting what they wanted from them would be very slim.”  
Myrie suppressed a shudder.  “Can’t deny that logic, I guess.”  
A far cry caught her ear.    
“Hey! Anyone not dead out there?”  
“Khimma, will you _hush_?  They might hear you, and I am _not_ dropping this tome again just to fight off more of those blasted things!”  
“We’ve been trapped in here for hours, Klixx!  If we don’t get out now while we can – ”  
The search party rounded a corner, weapons held at the ready.  A familiar, blue-haired asura let out a yelp and scrabbled back.   
“Oh, thank the Eternal Alchemy, someone did hear us!”  
  
“We’re all that’s left of our party,” Khimma said.  She marched just behind Klixx, guarding his back and keeping a wary eye out for more Risen.  “By the time we’d fled from the dig site, all of the rest of our krewe had been slaughtered and turned.  It’s only thanks to Klixx that either of us are alive.”  
“Well,” came the statician’s voice from behind the towering tome he carried, “you were the one who shielded me.  If you didn’t do that, I wouldn’t have had time to use our subrupture portals.”  
Myrie’s brow furrowed in confusion.  “Your what now?”  
“Khimma and I have helped invent portable exosuits,” Klixx explained.  “They don’t last very long, and they teleport back after a set amount of time, but they do their jobs well.”  
“He looked pretty funny, though.”  The asura guardian couldn’t quite prevent herself from snickering.  “That old dwarven tome he’s got there took up half the piloting space in his suit.  He was squashed almost completely against the electropulsive barrier – could barely operate the thing!”  
“The _point_ is that we managed to keep ourselves alive just long enough for both our defenses to wear out and for you to get here,” the elementalist huffed.  “Khimma, why don’t _you_ try holding this for a while?”  
“You know I can’t cast spells as well as you,” she retorted.  “I’d be practically useless!  You use books as foci all the time.”  
Klixx’s eyes bulged over the ancient tome.  “They’re usually a bit _lighter_ than this, Khimma!”  
“See, that just proves you need to work on more muscles than the page-turning ones!”    
A rustling snarl was all the warning the asura had before a risen norn lunged from the deeper shadows in the cave.  Khimma staggered back, hammer rising slowly before a crack of lightning flashed through the air, sending the corpse flying backwards with the horrible smell of burned, rotten meat.  
“Sometimes muscles aren’t fast enough,” Klixx said smugly.  His krewemember nodded.  A low chorus of groans echoed through the cave.  
“We can’t fight all of those,” Sylfia said, eyes widening as she peered into the darkness.  
“Pick up the pace, people,” Myrie barked.  She dashed ahead of Llumin.  “There are fewer Risen up ahead!”  
“Myrie, wait!”    



	83. Arc 4, Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trahearne makes a desperate use of magic to push past the Risen entrenchment.

The group caught up with her just in time to see the second entrance become closed off with a gate of rising bones, curving like ribs to trap them inside.  The thief’s triumphant smile melted, face drawn in pale horror.  
“Why,” she gulped, “do I have the sudden feeling that we’re trapped?”  
Trahearne grimaced.  “They’re evolving their tactics.  I’ve heard of Risen using basic strategies before, but this far from Orr and with no visible leader…”  
“Well, that’s just great,” the thief said, spreading her arms.  “But we’re kind of _stuck_ here, so if you know a way to trick these rotten flesh-bags away from us or something, now would be a great time!  Do they have books like that?”  
“Myrie, calm down,” Llumin said sharply.  “I understand we’re in a bit of a predicament, but losing our heads won’t help anything.”  
“All this rot for a book.”  Sylfia shook her head.  “Why would the dragon be so interested in it?”    
Klixx huffed, shifting its weight.  “It’s not just a book, you thickheaded tree.  It’s a dwarven tome.  250 or so years ago, the Elder Dragon Primordus nearly rose from its slumber, sending its champion, the Great Destroyer, ahead of it.  Almost the entire dwarven race was exterminated in the effort to kill it.”  His clawed fingers clenched over the worn leather binding.  “This book is proof – hope – that we can defeat the dragons.  It may even show some of their weaknesses.”  His eyes flashed dully in the cave.  “You don’t need to be a warrior to know that hope is one of the most powerful weapons of all.”  
“Great,” Myrie said, squatting and scuffing her boots in the dirt.  “I’ll keep that in mind when we get eaten.”  
Caladbolg’s glow brightened as the sylvari necromancer walked from the entrance.  “These gates are impenetrable – and we’re out of explosives,” he muttered.  “There’s only one way we could get out.  I will be defenseless while I channel the spell, and it will take a great deal of my strength, but when it is done, you _must_ run.”  
Selana stepped alongside him.  “We’ll defend you.  Whatever it takes, we cannot afford to be stopped here.”  Llumin had already drawn her sword.  Sylfia stood ahead of them all, hammer at the ready and jaw set.    
The Firstborn stood straighter.  “The undead will sense the spell and come when they sense it, so be ready.”  
  
Llumin watched him out of the corner of her eye, torchlight barely illuminating the muddy floor.  At first he seemed to do nothing, merely standing in place and staring at the ground.  Then she heard him slowly inhale, as if he was taking in the earth’s very soul.  The rumbling below her feet nearly made her lose her footing.    
From the corridor ahead, the undead shrieked.   Sylfia had switched to her longbow; a flaming arrow sent a Risen asura scout gurgling to the ground.  Three others took its place.    
Llumin looked back.  The glow from Caladbolg lit the Firstborn’s face in an eerie blue glow.  His shoulders shook, fingers clenched around the hilt of the living weapon.  Despite the chaos around him, he did not move.  The shrieks and calls of the undead grew to a roar in the echoing cave.  Was Trahearne’s spell working?

  The scent of cold gravestones and fresh dirt was the only warning that preceded the ground bursting around his feet.  Six towering flesh golems dug their wicked, scything claws into the ground and lunged from below, horned skulls staring down with hollow eyes at Trahearne. Llumin felt her stomach twist in horror before she realized that the massive creatures weren’t made by the Dragon.  
They were made by _him_.    
“Go,” he whispered.  
The silent sentinels turned on clawed feet and charged ahead.  Caladbolg briefly sagged in the Firstborn’s grip as he staggered to the side and braced himself against a wall.    
“They’ll help us fight off the Risen while we can.  They won’t last forever, but for now, the dead have agreed to battle the dragon before returning to their slumber.”  
  
  
The battle to lead them back outside was not glorious. It was muddy, full of rotting blood and screaming dead, of atrophied flesh and reeking marrow spilt on damp stones and in murky waters.  Trahearne’s undead servants worked in horrific, brutal synchronization, surrounding and slashing viciously at the larger abominations, and only when even they had suffered too much damage to their wrought forms did they give a single, sad sigh before slipping back below the earth like a sleeper beneath warm covers.

 

 When they arrived at the fort again, there was little celebration.  There were dead to be buried, and the gore of the battles and the silt of the caves stuck to their skin nearly as much as the horrors that gnawed their minds.  The Traveling Circus filed their way to Order tents and medical stations to deposit the books and work on resting their weary minds before the next inevitable battle.  



	84. Arc 4, Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [GORE WARNING]  
> Nettle and Adam concoct a plan after another experiment is interrupted.

“Skull!  We need the information from that prisoner as soon as possible!”  
The sylvari bent over her subject, green eyes narrowed as she watched for any changes or discoloration.  According to her research, this poison would first cause the blood vessels in some of the more mucous-lined or exposed organs, such as the nose and eyes, to necrotize.  The human in the chair below her squirmed, eyes bulging.   
“You can keep up with your witchcraft, plant,” he spat.  A dribble of darkened blood ran down his clenched teeth.  “The false Queen will live knowing that she sent her prisoners to – ”  
“Skull!”    
Nettle’s fingers flexed around the hilt of her dagger.  A few seconds longer and the poison would reach its full, agonizing affect.  Her lips twisted.  Too many interruptions.  Too much noise. The sigil on the back of her neck burned; only months of practice kept her from swatting and clawing at the pain like an irritating horsefly.    
“Now.”  Gryphon’s voice was an unignorable command in her skull.  She snarled and plunged her dagger into the captive’s leg, twisting with surgical precision as the muscles within snapped and warped unnaturally around the blade.  The prisoner’s taunt was cut off in a howl of agony, tortured body straining uselessly against the restraints.    
“The swamp!  They’re all in the swamp!”  
The burning at the back of Nettle’s mind eased.    
“Good work, Skull.  Congratulations on another successful extraction.” The woman at the far end of the room stood.  “We’ll have our troops back by sunrise.”  
Nettle ignored her and the cold, echoing steps of the stone floor as the woman ascended, leaving her and her materials in the interrogation dungeon.  One hand was pressed firmly against the forehead of the prisoner, eyes narrowed as she stared at him.  Disgust rose in her like bile.  Too late.  The mesmer’s prompting had forced her to miss viewing the results of her poison.  The man on the table wept tears of blood from ruined eyes, choking on pain.  
“Next time,” Gryphon’s mental communications were stern, “focus more on the objective than your research. You would likely have seen your results had you retrieved the information sooner.”  
She stood and wiped her dagger on a nearby stained cloth.  “I would have seen them if you had let me,” she hissed.  “I am the Order of Whispers’ most effective assassin and extraction specialist, yet you and the Master of Whispers keep insisting on interfering with my research!”  
“Lives are at stake, Nettle.  The Pact has no time or men to waste while the main body of troops march towards Orr.”  
She grimaced, teeth glinting in the flickering light of the torches above.  “Then perhaps allow me to work freely, Lord Radwing,” she said.  “Your sigil and the presence of the Firestone ghosts have decreased my productivity on poisons by no fewer than thirty-seven percent, and the specters alone have ruined more resources in my laboratory than I’d care to admit.”  
“You and I both know that they only interfere with your work when it’s not geared towards the fight against the Dragons or their minions.”  
A flicker of a human form – Dierdre, thorns snare her – appeared to the left of the prisoner, cold blue eyes staring at him.  Her face turned to the sylvari, gave a grim nod, and dissipated.   
Nettle snarled.  If she really wanted to show her appreciation, she and her wraith of a husband would leave her materials alone!  A distant crash and the smell of burning driftwood tinged with scorched silver let her know how likely that would be.  Orr.  It was all anyone, living or dead, was focused on.

  
  Adam’s thin, hissing whisper rasped into her ear.  She at first ignored him – the ancient skull was berating her, as usual, telling her how Eve would have thought of several retorts and spells to rein in those who would use her, how she would never have let the idea of diplomatic immunity or unlimited resources sway her path.  She had half a mind to take her knife to the ancient bone and etch a line into the brittle material, but before she could, he told her something which prevented her from picking up the blade.  
“Gryphon,” she said as she stooped to pick up some of her fallen instruments, “how go the advances south?”  
“The Pact has been moving with encouraging speed,” he said cautiously.  “Llumin and Selana have proven to be an admirable duo in commanding forces towards the southern part of the mainland.  According to estimates, some would say that the Pact is scheduled to reach Fort Trinity and begin capturing it within a few weeks.”  
She inspected a scalpel and holstered it within a soft leather roll.  “Would it be possible to request a shipment of materials from Rata Sum to reach the forces?  I can think of several golemancy crystals that would assist the asura in creating more resilient automatons.”  
The sigil on the back of her mind was silent.  She barely noticed as the ruined body of the prisoner in its chair gave its last breaths.  “After all,” she continued, “Orr is commanded by the bodies and enslaved spirits of the restless dead, is it not?  I understand,” she said, lowering a clay bowl to the cooling corpse and removing her dagger, “that subjugating the still-enslaved minions’ minds would be entirely too risky to attempt binding to crystals.  But what if,” she purred, “you could simply take the essences of those that had been freed? A bit of soul, if you will. They may not even recognize the transferal.”  
“Nettle,” Gryphon said coldly, “you do realize you are talking about sentient beings.  They’re ghosts, yes, but many of them were unwilling to turn to the Dragon’s corruption.  We wouldn’t be much better than the it if we were to use them for our own purposes.”  
Her pale lip curled as the darkened blood from the captive dribbled sluggishly into her bowl.  Small necrotic crystals glimmered at the sides as she tilted it in the torchlight.  “Lord Radwing, you said it yourself that we don’t have many men or resources to waste.  I’m a _necromancer_ ; those of my profession would consider it…recycling.”  She removed a glove and stuck a finger in the bowl of blood, rubbing it against her thumb.  The sediment was like fine sand; the crystals broke down under pressure.  A feeling of contentment rose in her.  At least some of the experiment was still a success.  “We would, of course free the ghosts and what we took from them after their service, or even offer it as revenge of some sort.  Those who’d rather not don’t have to.”  
There was a sigh in her mind.  The human hadn’t entirely denied the value of her point.    
“It may even help to keep the Firestone girls out of danger,” she pressed, feeling the cold presence of the ghosts at her back.  “If, of course, anyone is interested in that,” she said, turning and glowering at them.  Arcon and Dierdre crossed their arms and gave her an even stare.  
“What are you planning, Nettle?”  Gryphon’s voice tamped down the smile that lingered on her lips.    
“Nothing that would endanger any one of our precious troops,” she said.  “Or anyone in our guild.”  
“The two do tend to correlate,” the mesmer said flatly.  She could almost see him running a hand down his face.    
“One favor,” she said.  Her stomach soured.  Why did this feel like begging?  Only the weak begged.  “Something we could send to help the troops.  I could study and see how the crystals work; perhaps find something that could remotely interfere with the Dragon’s influence.”  
There was silence on the other end of her sigil.  She knew the mesmer was close by.  He hated seeing her work, but kept just enough of his awareness on her that when in this range, he could twist and prod at her focus just enough to direct her like a puppet on a string.    
She subconsciously rubbed the dried blood on her fingers off, feeling the grains flake like so much sand onto the stained stone floor.  The stares from Selana’s ghosts seemed a bit too intense for her liking.  If this was the longest they had gone without interfering with her work, she figured she’d best take what she could get.  She opened her mouth and drained the rest of the acrid blood from the clay bowl, swirling it on her tongue like a fine wine as the magic within tingled glittering lines of satisfying knowledge through her mind.  She swallowed and mentally categorized the magical changes and properties before she politely cleared her throat.

“Lord Radwing, I do hope you’re not ignoring me after such a spectacular performance.”  
She could feel his frustration through the link.    
“I’ll allow for no fewer than three shipments,” he said finally, “and only if we route it through your old mentor.”  
Nettle decided to attribute the sudden twist in her stomach to the poison in the blood.  Her eyes narrowed.  “You’d be more likely to win over the Dragon to our cause by using Llumin’s horrible optimism and rainbows,” she sneered.  
“Boneweaver Vixxa is one of Rata Sum’s most advanced necromancers, but I’m sure you knew that; otherwise, you wouldn’t have sought her out when you left the Grove.”  He sounded entirely too smug for her liking.  “If she finds no reason to disapprove of the shipments, then there’s no reason to not send them out.”  
“That old lizard is a good necromancer and intelligent,” Nettle snapped,  “but she refuses to see the modern uses and practicality of current necromancy and its applications!”  
“Well, that’s unfortunate; I’ll keep your name off of the shipping manifest, but I’ll still run your plan by her and see what she thinks of it.”  
Nettle rolled her eyes and took out a scalpel to begin dissecting the body.  She’d dispose of it later, likely by giving it to the sharks that swam through the waterways of the Order’s hidden base.  “It involves golemancy.  She’s an asura necromancer.  Bah, I can almost hear that creaking voice of hers about the two being connected.”  
“Yes, well.”  Gryphon sounded distant; he was already shifting his main focus elsewhere; good.  “As to your personal request for transference, I suppose I can see the merit of having you down there to sense dragon magic or corruption.  I’ll take it up with the Master of Whispers and see if she’d be all right with sending you to Orr.  You’d likely be good at removing spies.”  
“Of course, Lord Radwing.”  The sylvari gave a mock bow to the corpse on the table.  “Now, unless you’d like to be aware of my incisions…”    
The mesmer's presence went silent. As she bent over the prisoner's lifeless form, her lips twitched, ghastly smile hidden as Firestone's ghosts decided to busy themselves with ruining another potion. This plan was long, but Adam had a point -- if it worked and the ancient skull's theory proved correct, Tyria would see a fusion of ancient and new magics like never before.  
She pressed the knife to cold skin and drove through it.


	85. Arc 4, Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Pact supply run goes horribly wrong, casting Llumin's abilities to lead and her trustworthiness into question.

If there was one thing the recent battles against the Risen had shown the Pact, it was that despite their incredible resources and combined abilities, they were still lacking in firepower.  Fortunately, the Vigil was more than willing to offer all they had to aid the mission to Orr.  Even though the trip to Sootberme in the turbulent lands surrounding Mount Maelstrom was grueling, plagued by insects, and punctuated heartily by Sylfia’s grumblings at the lack of liquor, eventually Llumin, Selana, and several other members of the Traveling Circus arrived at the makeshift camp.    
“Pity we couldn’t convince Lyca to spare a few more rations,” sighed Myrie.  She scraped the bottom of her bowl as Sylfia rinsed out the large jar of soup that had been sent along with them.  
“I wouldn’t complain,” Selana said as she gathered the dishes.  “At least we’re not eating seared skelk or foraging for food.”  
“Well, we’ll have to on the way back down!”  The thief brandished her spoon at the elementalist.  “And I’ll tell you right now, I am not going anywhere near strange mushrooms!  I’ve heard way too many stories of people thinking they got the right one and ended up keeling over moments later because, whoops, that was the deadly version and the edible one has brown spots instead of green!”  
“Well, if you paid better attention,” said Llumin, “I suppose you would’ve learned the proper way the first time around.”  
“Hey, in Divinity’s Reach, you don’t forage for mushrooms to live.  You just nick food from nobles’ tables or something.” A grin split Myrie’s face.  “Ah, never will forget that time Quinn and I managed to nab a roast moa from beneath Lord Whatsit-or-Whatever’s overwaxed moustache.  Fed the whole gang for a week, and Mom was none the wiser.”  
“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Selana said, rolling her eyes.  “How are your parents, anyway?”  
“Last I heard, they’re doing well.”  Myrie stood and stretched.  “Queen Jennah’s actually seeing about what she can do to restore my dad’s title and get him some help from mesmers and other people who’ve dealt with what he’s got.  Mom’s doing what she can to raise awareness for soldiers and other people that have trouble with keeping their heads out of old battles.”  
“You sound proud.”  
“I am.”  
“Aye, you humans and your fleshkin.  Ain’t that complicated with sylvari, us all poppin’ off the Mother Tree and whatnot,” Sylfia said, using a twig to remove some of the beef stuck in her teeth. “Good on you, though.”  
Myrie gave her a look.  “Thanks, I guess.”    
The warrior clapped her hands and stood.  “Right, then, who’s this rot that Llumin’s got to talk with to get our munitions?  Sooner we get them, sooner we can get our fort all set up and whatnot down in Orr.  Then we’ll be able to open lines of transport, theoretically.”  
“You know, sometimes I forget that you know words like ‘theoretically’, Sylfia.”  Myrie gave the fiery warrior an angelic smile.  
“Well, talk like that, and I just might have to ‘theoretically’ give you a kick to your fleshy – ”  
“Pardon me, Sylfia, but I wouldn’t speak like that in the presence of a commanding officer.”  Llumin’s voice was calm but firm.  Sylfia’s pale green eyes widened as she scrambled to stand, hurtling a hasty salute.    
“Warmaster Caisson!”  
The human waved the salute off.  “At ease, soldier.  I am surprised, though, that the Commander doesn’t respect that kind of awe.”  
Sylfia gave a grunt, sliding her gaze from the Warmaster to Llumin.  “You’ll pardon me, ma’am, but Oi’ve been Vigil longer than Pact.  She doesn’t quite inspire the awe of the old silver and black.”  
“She is your commanding officer, Wyldcaller,” Caisson said sharply.  “If Trahearne sees it fit to suggest her leadership, I don’t see why you think yourself any different.”  
The warrior’s shoulders stiffened, lips curled.  For a moment, Myrie thought she was about to fire another retort, but she merely shook her head, laughing cynically.  “You’d know it if you saw it,” she said, “but as you wish.”  
  
“We’re glad you came.  I could understand why Trahearne may want his Commander’s supervision on this shipment, and we need all the help we can get.  Lately, the Risen have been increasing their patrol numbers and blocking the path south towards the Orrian front.”  The Warmaster shook her head.  “I know Trahearne says the Dragon has been more aware of our presence, but this is eerie.  It’s as if it’s actively watching us and waiting for our next move.”  
“That’s because it is.”  Selana was grim.  “And part of why we’re here to help.”  
“Well, we’ll take what we can get,” Caisson said.  She motioned behind her.  “The dolyaks are loaded up with supplies, but we’ll need to move while we’ve still got the chance.  Like I said, Zhaitan’s been taking greater interest in our runs.”  
Sylfia gave a fierce smile.  “Well, then, let’s give it a show.  A black eye for the old skink!”    
  
  
The air grew more stagnant as the Vigil troops marched onwards.  At first, the scenery seemed much the same as it had early on in their journey.  The trees and moss-covered stones were still as mossy and rocky as before, interspersed with an occasional flake of ash descending from the semi-dormant volcano.    
“You _really_ sure it ain’t gonna blow up on us?”  Sylfia squinted suspiciously at the ever-present, towering mountain.  “I mean, really, I know it isn’t always the most stable of things, but Oi’m pretty sure I speak for all of us when I say I’d rather avoid being turned into firewood.”  
“Making a pun on your own race?”  Myrie couldn’t help the grin that flashed on her face. “Never thought I’d hear it from you.”  
The warrior snorted.  “And Oi never thought I’d say I’ve been burned alive twice and live to tell the tale, but here we are anyway.”  
“Hush.”  The hissed command forced both women to still their tongues.  Ahead, Selana’s fiery head paused, pale skin shining in the dull light.  “Do you smell that?”  
The sharp smells of pine and wet stone were accented as rain started to hiss down on the party, perfuming the air with the musty scent of wet dolyak and leather. Now, though, it was overwhelming, scents of sea-decay, of brine and oily rot.  The back of Myrie’s neck prickled.  Street-sense had given her enough of an awareness of danger to help when it counted – and sometimes when it didn’t –but she could tell that the path ahead was no longer safe.   
“Do you see anything?”  The thief’s voice was low, and despite her efforts, she couldn’t quite keep the nerves from showing in her speech.    
“Not yet.”  The towering noble craned her neck around the caravan; Llumin had gone ahead with the first couple of dolyaks alongside the Warmaster; Selana took the next two and left Myrie and Sylfia guarding the rear.  The Vigil troops that walked alongside them muttered uncertainly; they, too, had noticed the change in the air.   
“Weapons ready, troops,” Caisson barked.  “Move steady and keep your guard up.”    
  


Tension sang across Myrie’s shoulders.  She was glad that the snorting and grunting of the massive beasts of burden and their cargo masked the low, quick clicking of the safety on her pistols.  It had been at least five minutes since the warning, and the rain had bogged down the dolyaks, turning the trampled dirt path into a muddy slog.  A norn warrior sneezed, earning him a nervous glare from his companions.    
“What?” he hissed.  “This weather’s awful. You really think they’ll wait until we get to our destination before jumping us?”  
“Doesn’t matter.”  A short charr curled her lips at him.  “These stupid yaks and their smells are masking anything else that isn’t them.  I feel blind.”  
The rain came down in gray sheets now.  Myrie holstered her pistols and Sylfia slung her bow over her shoulder.  There were no torches lit to guide their path, and the few lanterns that were lit shone dully through greasy, soot-stained glass.  The troops and their grumblings weren’t helping the morale.

  “Shut up and keep your eyes peeled,” she said.  She snorted a drop of water from the tip of her nose.    
“Oh, yeah?  And who’re you?  You’re at the back with us, aren’t you?”  The norn’s nerves turned on her.  “Commander of the Pact my foot.  She seems to think real high of you if you’re back here with us grunts.”  
A low bellow silenced Myrie’s retort.    
“Burn me, a dolyak’s gotten stuck in the mud,” cursed the charr.  She sprinted towards the beast and inspected its foot before calling others to her side to help push it from the mud-pit.  “Come on, help me lift or push this stupid beast.”  
Myrie moved carefully through the sucking mud.  Cold water oozed in between her toes, chafing against the wet leather of her boots.  The dolyak’s wide brown eyes flashed white in terror, snorting hot clouds of steam as it bellowed and struggled against the mud.   
“Come on, Scotty,” the charr growled, shoving herself against the dolyak’s shoulder.  “Can’t be keeping up the rest of the caravan.”  
The mud beneath the dolyak’s left hind foot writhed. Myrie blinked.  Just water across her eyelids, surely.    
Another howling moan broke through the lashing of the trees.  The charr raised her head, eyes meeting hers.  
“That…wasn’t the yak,” she said slowly.

The norn warrior gave a shout of surprise as an undead grub as thick as his arm burst from the mud and launched itself at him.  He raised his shield, sending the writing worm back into the muck before giving a vicious stomp and sending brackish green guts splattering into the air.    
“Undead are on us!” He drew his sword, eyes widening.    
  
What happened next was a flurry of motion.  The Risen had been patient; now that they were immobilized, the Vigil’s tasks were split between defending their munitions and fending off the undead that crawled from the ground or burst from behind wet foliage.  Abominations that had been lying in wait lumbered with horrible purpose towards the caravan.  The screams of the dead and the bleating of the dolyaks combined with the cacophonies of the storm and of the howling warriors to produce a hellish orchestra of confusion and agony.

Nettle would like the atmosphere, Myrie thought idly as she leapt out of the way of a crushing blow.  The abomination facing her lifted its rotten head and growled at her.  
“Return to Orr,” it said.  Its voice was as drowned as the land.  “Die.”  
“Well, yeah, _you’re_ gonna die,” she said, vaulting over its arm to land on its back.  “But I really don’t have time for it.”  She unloaded her pistols into the back of its head and gave a yelp as the massive patchwork of bodies howled and pitched forward, writhing in death throes.  Waterlogged bones crunched wetly beneath the mass.  
“Oi, good shot, fleshy!”  Syflia’s hammer pulped several grubs into unrecognizable green paste.  “Got a few of those other Orrian rots beneath it.”  
“Yeah, totally meant to do that!”  Myrie lied.

  
Llumin’s illusions flickered around the battle-path, grim determination mirrored on the reflections of her face.  A platoon of undead archers had set up ahead of the caravan.  Warmaster Caisson had an arrow imbedded in between the plates of her armor.  She gave a grunt and broke the shaft from it before turning to cleave an Orrian jester’s head and hideous hat in two.    
“Keep fighting, troops!” she shouted.  “We’re nearing our destination!”    
Were they?  Myrie looked around her and behind, where the corpses of both Risen and Vigil lay strewn about like the forgotten dolls of some childish brat.  The night’s battle seemed to wage on forever in an unending fight of the restless dead and the wearying living.  A dull gleam of pitted metal flashed ahead.    
“When we make it to the bridge, we’ll have the perfect vantage point to shell any undead that try to come at us,” Llumin said.  She cast down a wall of reflective magic.  The arrows that the Orrians launched at them sang across the barrier and ricocheted back towards them, landing heavily in their throats and sending them choking to the ground.  “Don’t give up!” 

 

 

The bodies of the dead and the fallen formed a macabre path ahead, giving the muddy ground enough traction for the dolyaks’ plodding gait.  Miraculously, not even one of the soaked beasts had fallen in battle, though one or two had wounds that were a bit concerning to Myrie.  Selana’s firestorms baked several grubs into the earth and popped them like burned pastries.    
The thief decided to avoid sweets for a while.  
“We’re here!  Move, move!  Set up,” barked Caisson.  “Get those turrets ready!”   She turned to Llumin.  “We’ve had reports of undead here for weeks.  This is where they’ve been coming from.  When you see them, we’ll fire on your command.”  She gave a grim smile.  “I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.”  
The sylvari squinted through the rain. The torches that were set up gave off greasy smoke as their light flickered and hissed in the storm.  A dull gleam of ruined armor in the ravine below caught her eye.  She clenched her eyes shut.  She could be seeing things; the haze of smoke, rain, and battle-fatigue had dulled her senses.  The soldiers seemed to have similar issues; Llumin only hoped that the weapons’ calibrations had been performed before they had left the camp.  She barely caught a hint of magic in the air – likely fragments of the battles beforehand. Another glow flickered below her in the valley.  Her eyes widened.  There was an entire troop of undead marching towards them.  If they reached them, the battle would not be in their favor.  Yet something seemed…off.  Unease gnawed like a termite in the back of her mind.  An Orrian raised its head, gaping eye-sockets staring emptily up at the platoon.  It opened its mouth and gave a gurgling roar; others followed suit.  Cold dread turned to electric resolve.  
“Fire!”    
The mortars belched fire and fury on the massed undead below, blasting lights and explosions echoing with the rage of a fallen god as the shells burst on their hapless targets.  After several seconds of thunderous shots and the howls of the undead, the forest rang with silence.  Warmaster Caisson gave a grim smile.  “Excellent work, troops.  Those Orrians never knew what hit them.  Let’s go make sure there aren’t any stragglers.”    
  
The bodies of the fallen remained still as Llumin followed closely behind the scouting party, stumbling in exhaustion.    
Confusion and fear shook an asura scout’s voice.  He knelt over a body and lifted its arm.  “These… these are our colors.”  He stood, eyes wide in horror.  “We just shelled our own men!”  
“What?”  Llumin stood rooted to the spot.  “No, that’s impossible – I saw them – they were Risen…!”    
Warmaster Caisson’s face was impassive.  “Check for survivors!  Move it!”  
“Over here!”  A wet cough from the far side of the ravine.  “Don’t shoot! For the love of whatever you monsters hold dear, don’t flaming shoot!”    
“We’re on our way, soldier!”  Medics dashed to the fallen Vigil, a lone charr that lay propped on one arm.

 “Who’s responsible for this?”  She coughed, blood spattering her scorched armor.  Her tail lashed the ground.  The troops all turned accusing eyes to Llumin.  Even Selana’s gaze was wide, horror paling her skin. The charr’s lips curled into a grimace of disgust and her ears flattened against her skull as a vicious growl grated from her throat. “Nice going, _Commander.”_   Her eyes flashed with murderous hate as she staggered past her.  “You just killed everyone in my platoon.” 


	86. Arc 4, Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin struggles to process what happened. Warmaster Caisson declares the young commander unfit for duty, but offers two paths towards redeeming herself.

  
“Name and rank, soldier.”  
“Tactician Syska, sir.”  The charr’s gaze was murder.  Though in obvious pain, her furious gaze never left Llumin’s.  “Half of my force is still in the volcano.”    
“What was your mission?”  The medic ducked to avoid the tactician’s tail as it lashed furiously.    
“Why are you questioning me?”  She half-lunged from the cot and stabbed an accusing claw at the mesmer. “She’s the one who should be answering for what she’s done!”    
“Tactician, if half of your forces are still up in the volcano, we need to get them out as soon as possible.”  
“We were monitoring Destroyer activity.  They’ve been bubbling up from Maelstrom’s core more than usual,” she said.  She seemed very unwilling to sit still; if it weren’t for her wounds, Llumin wouldn’t have put a murder attempt past her.  She slumped on numb legs against a tent pole.    
“Half of us were on the patrol for Risen in the area.  They’ve been getting worse recently.”  Syska sneered.  “Ironically, we were trying to watch out for _you_ and your forces.”  She spat on the ground.  “Funny how that was repaid, isn’t it?”  She waved off the medics’ concerned stitching.  “I can make it from here.”  She stalked past Llumin.  “Get out of my sight.  I swear on my troops’ graves, Trahearne _will_ hear of your incompetence.”    
  
Llumin turned to Warmaster Caisson.  The human shook her head.   
“This isn’t your best day.  You’re going to give one hell of an explanation to Trahearne if you want to get out of hot water this time.”  
“Please tell me I wasn’t the only one.”  Llumin swallowed dryly.  “Please tell me I wasn’t the only one who saw the Risen.”  
Caisson sighed and crossed her arms.  “I want to believe you, Commander.  But everyone was keeping an eye on the munitions and the path ahead of us. Apologies are cold comfort to the dead and their families.”  She shook her head.  “Didn’t anyone tell you to get a clear sight of your target before you shoot?”  
The sylvari took a slow breath.  “Something isn’t adding up here.  Why didn’t we hear of any other Vigil missions nearby?  If we were going to cross paths, wouldn’t it make sense to hear from the tactician beforehand?”    
  Selana walked behind her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.  “Llumin, I don’t doubt your reasoning or logic, but we’ll need evidence if we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”  She exhaled slowly.  “I …don’t want to believe that you were careless.  So far, I see only one of two paths that would make sense.  We either investigate Syska, or we get her troops back and see what they have to say.”   
Warmaster Caisson sighed.  “Regardless of the choice you make, I can’t let you remain on active duty with my troops.”  She gave a short whistle, and a hawk flew from one of the cages by the camp supplies.  “I’m sending a missive to Trahearne concerning what happened.  I’m sure you have your own messenger to use.”    
Llumin nodded and swallowed.  “I have a white raven that Lady Firestone gave me.  It should be able to avoid any major Orrian patrols between here and the staging point.”  
Caisson gave her a smile that was almost sympathetic.  “Send your missive.  In the meantime, I’d recommend finding out what you plan on doing next.”  
  
“I know what I saw,” Llumin said quietly to herself.  Her pen tapped absently on the parchment that lay unrolled before her.  The feathered quill was slightly ragged – she had taken to picking at the feather’s strands out of nervousness.  The shaft of the pen limped dejectedly like a half-shaved cat’s tail in the air.  She groaned as the thoughts in her mind once more evaded capture by ink and placed her head on her desk.  “I can’t take all day.”  She shook her head and took a sharp breath.  “Selana,” she called, “would you come here, please?”  
The fiery elementalist ducked below the tent flap with a greeting.  Her red brows were knit in concern.  “Have you thought of anything?”  
The sylvari sighed.  “Not a word.  ‘I was wrong’?  ‘The smoke got in my eyes’?  It just…doesn’t make sense. None of this does.” She set the pen down and did a double-take as she caught sight of the ruined feather.  “Oh dear.”  
“Nervous?”  
“You don’t have to ask the obvious.”    
“I can’t blame you,” Selana said soothingly.  “I’ve thought of a solution.  You can’t really be in two places at once, right?”  
The mesmer raised her head from her arms.  “You flatter me by thinking I’ve mastered that level of illusion yet, Selana.”  
The human gave a brief nod.  “Well, what if we each take a different lead?  I’ll go to the volcano and see about extracting Syska’s unit, and you can investigate the charr herself.  It plays to both our strengths,” she continued, “as though I’m talented at finding falsehoods, you may have better luck in investigating her past.  I’ve done extractions in the Order of Whispers before. Gryphon just recently authorized a shipment of new crystals for some of the exosuit golems – I’ll have to have Khimma or Klixx operate them, but they should be crucial in monitoring environmental hazards.”  
“Such as?”  
Selana grimaced.  “Such as the volcano that’s currently unstable.”    
Llumin’s eyes widened.  “Are you certain you want to go there?”  
“It’s not a want; it’s a need.” The elementalist straightened as much as she could in the sylvari’s tent.  “I know I’m not the one that authorized the blitz, but I’m your sister.  I should have been able to make sure everything was all right.”  She gave a brave smile, which was returned weakly.  “We can do this, Llumin.  Send your message.  I’ll send word to you when I get back from the volcano.  For now,” she said and turned to leave, “I’ve got to prepare for some warm-weather extractions.”

 


	87. Arc 4, Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nettle's shipment of mysterious crystals begins its escort down to the Pact camps. Trahearne's judgement is questioned, and Llumin begins her investigation.

Jorikk looked up from his paperwork, tapping and swiping on an asuran hexmancy tablet as he cleared a few signatures and filled out new writing forms for the newest shipment to the Pact encampments scattered throughout the Bloodtide Coasts. “Excuse me,” he said, squinting up at the shadowed figure in front of him, “but you’re in my light.”  
“Ah, my apologies.” The individual stood slightly to the side, allowing the asura to finally see who was in front of him. A gleaming emblem from the Order of Whispers shone on a pale sylvari’s armored shoulder, decorative daggers flaring from the armored pad like silver rays of sunlight. “I merely wanted to see how the shipment’s processing was proceeding.”   
“M-ma’am!” Jorikk snapped a hasty salute, ears sticking straight out in shock. “What a surprise! I knew Lightbringer Radwing wanted to make sure things were going smoothly, but I assure you, an Agent needn’t concern yourself with a little duty such as this,” he said firmly. “The Rata Sum authorities have already cleared the materials for gate transfer through the Priory’s main headquarters in the Shiverpeaks. We’ll be using dolyaks to get them where they need to go. It might take a while, but trust me,” he said as he puffed out his small yet broad chest. “The Pact Post will ensure that all materials, hazardous, foodborne, or otherwise, will reach their destinations with as much efficiency and retention of life and product as possible.”  
The woman in front of him laughed. “How long did it take you to memorize that reel?”   
Jorikk felt his gray ears pink. “Three weeks,” he mumbled as he scuffed a three-toed foot on the ground. “I wasn’t exactly the smartest progeny in class,” he said. “But at least here, my knowledge of maps and routes can be put to good use.” For a moment, the woman in front of him was silent; her smile seemed almost masklike, and her gaze was distant.   
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” she said amusedly, shaking her head. The delicate green leaves on her head glowed a faint green as the Maguuman sunlight filtered through them. Jorikk’s hairless brow furrowed.   
“No, ma’am,” he said. He reached up and scratched the back of his knotted red hair. “I get so many shipments and see more recruits pass by every day that I can’t exactly keep track of who’s who.” He straightened. “But I’m sure, by the Alchemy, that every one of you who’s heading down there to fight the dragons are all heroes in your own way!”  
The sylvari beamed. “Oh, you flatter me,” she said as she waved a dismissive hand. Her smile really was quite enchanting. “I’m no-one, really, not any more than anyone else.” She shrugged. “Everyone either lives or dies someday, and I figured I may as well put my life to use if I can,” she said.   
Jorikk perked up and frowned. “Now, that seems a bit fatalistic, Ma’am! I may be just a postmaster, but I think everyone’s life has use.”  
The sylvari gave a low laugh. “On that, we can agree.” She peered down at him. “When does the caravan depart?”  
“As soon as possible.” He tapped a few more times on the magitech device and looked up at her, eyes widening. “Wait, are you one of the guards scheduled for my shipment? I know some of them were going to be Vigil. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that an Agent would be assigned to a Whispers-made order. Though,” he said, squinting down at the details of the manifest, “last report I had said that you were a bit more…um. Fleshy.”  
She shrugged. “My former companion was delayed. Got a bit of parasites from eating an unknown fungus outside Rata Sum, so I’ll be taking her position,” she said. “Humans. I told her not to eat everything that glowed,” she sighed, rolling her eyes.  
The asura snorted. “Bookahs always think they can just eat whatever’s nearby. They’re little better than canine infants!” He coughed. “Well, some of them are. Lord Radwing and the others in Whispers and Priory don’t seem too bad, I suppose.”  
The woman’s lips twitched. “True enough. I’ll only be accompanying you to Mount Maelstrom. The dropoff point there is very volatile lately, and the team of researchers I’m in contact with wants me to deliver them personally.”  
“Well, that may be,” Jorikk said quickly, looking from the manifesto to the sylvari, “but unfortunately, I’ll have to get them to sign off on the manifesto so I can personally attest to the proper shipment of materials.” His smile faltered in confusion. “Is there something wrong with that, Miss…?”  
“Etlain,” came the taut reply. “And not terribly, aside from the fact that I don’t know if the support chute the researchers are insisting on having me use will be able to take both of ourselves and the crystal shipment.” She fiddled with the strap on one of her belt-bags. “I suppose if you went down there, they’d understand why I’d not be present,” she muttered. “But how will they know…?”  
“Not to worry, Agent Etlain.” Jorikk puffed out his chest again. “If you’ve got something I could sign in your place authorizing the delivery, I’m sure they’d understand. You’ve got important places to be, after all!” He winked one coppery eye. She beamed.   
“Are you certain? The trip will likely be dangerous.”   
He waved off her complaints. “Unless they’re any worse than the pack of ettins that were convinced what I was carrying was not in fact an edible rock of magical power – it was just a fancy jade seal – whatever’s in that volcano should be a piece of cake. I’ve taken extra precautions for destroyers and undead with this load. With you at our caravan’s back, nothing will keep it from getting where it needs to go.”   
She held out a small piece of parchment, which he didn’t bother to read as he signed it. He gave a sharp cry of surprise and swatted at the back of his neck.   
“Mosquito?” Etlain’s brows were raised in amusement. Jorikk laughed sheepishly.   
“I guess they still prefer meat to vegetables,” he said. The sylvari gave a hum and licked her lips as she stared over the horizon.   
“Well, then, nothing to lose aside from a bit of ration-weight as we go, hm? Let’s get moving.”

 

“And you’re absolutely certain these statements are accurate?” Trahearne looked up from the report on his desk to the charr in front of him. She snarled.   
“Do you really think that I would joke about the death of my men? I was among their bodies! These were good troops, Marshal, and I want an explanation. It’s the least their families deserve!”   
“I understand, and I agree completely, but what more would you have me do?” The necromancer set the paper down. “Llumin has already been removed from active duty with any major patrols for the time being while we continue this investigation, and she’s sent a missive telling me that Lady Firestone is going to rescue the rest of your troops in the meantime.”  
“I don’t care about the human mouse. I want that sylvari murderess punished!” Her lips curled. “You think that slap on the wrist will discourage other traitors?”   
“Tactician, that will be enough.” Trahearne reached a faintly-shaking hand to his temples. “I want to see this through as much as you do, but your ceaseless requests for more severe punishment won’t make this go any faster. Besides,” he said, motioning to the bandages that peeked below her armor, “you won’t want to aggravate those wounds. The insects hare as merciless as their mainland natives and twice as aggressive.”  
The tactician stood without saluting as she spun on her heel. “You might have the some of them fooled, Marshal,” she hissed, “and you may even have convinced yourself, but allow me to ask you this.” Her ears were pinned flat against her skull. “How often have you let those wide blue eyes of hers bat their way out of trouble before? I’m not the only one wondering it, sir,” she said. “Try listening to the people whose lives you hold before you claim you’re a neutral party.”

He remained seated as the charr left but stood and walked to the tent to ensure that she was out of earshot before he let himself relax. He sighed and leaned heavily on his desk.   
“You’re taking a very, very large risk, Llumin,” he said softly. The air behind him rippled.   
“I know. But I have to do this.” Her form shimmered and flickered like a trick of the light. The illusion scuffed a toe in the dirt. “You heard what she said. You have to have your doubts.”   
“I do.” He turned to face her, his expression troubled. “Before this, you’ve given me little reason to doubt your ability, but this incident is …”  
“Unusually-incompetant? Foolhardy? Unexpected?”   
He nodded slightly; his smile was wan. “I don’t want to believe the rumors that you fired blindly – or worse, knowingly – on one of our own units.” He pulled out a small drawer from the desk he had somehow grown in the peninsula’s sandy soil and leafed through the papers written in her delicate hand. “The questions you bring against Syska are,” he admitted, “troubling.” He stacked them absently on the living wood. “If you’re right,” he said slowly, “then the Dragon has been playing us all for fools longer than I’d care to admit. If you’re wrong…” He opened his mouth and closed it. He couldn’t quite meet the projection’s gaze.   
“I’d be unfit for duty, Trahearne,” she said gently. “The Mother Tree may know much, but she is not omniscient. I would head back to the Grove and do what I could to help from there. Selana would make an excellent Commander in my stead.”   
He shook his head. “Having her after you would only continue to raise concerns; I would need to find someone elsewhere to lead if you had to go. Of course, nothing is set in stone,” he said. He raised a hand towards her and pulled it back. He could easily hear Syska’s accusatory laugh in his mind. “If this does turn out in your favor,” he said quickly, “we’ll be able to forge ahead with a more united Pact; Fort Trinity could be within our grasp in a matter of weeks.”   
The illusion’s head gave a tired nod. “Perhaps we could discuss battle strategy over a bit of tea, then?”   
He mirrored her gentle smile. “Rose tea, if you will have it. Pale Tree guide you, Llumin.”  
“You as…”   
Her form faded with a sigh before she could finish the blessing. 

Trahearne stood and stared at the now-empty space for a moment, veins glowing a faint purple in the dim light of his tent. The low bustle of moving troops, the scents of hot metal and cooking fires, and the clanging of the Pact and its preparations rushed into her space and assaulted his senses. He sighed. As much as he wanted to, he could not rest. The Marshal of the Pact stood and walked outside his tent. There was much to do.

Llumin groaned and squinted up at the bright light that filtered through the soot-stained windowpanes. How long had she dozed off? The last thing she recalled was something about charr military formations and roll calls and --   
“I thought your kind didn’t sleep.” A grizzled charr, her reddish mane streaked through with stiff gray hairs, gave a smile as she crossed scarred arms across her leather apron.   
“We don’t.” The sylvari stretched her arms behind her head and shook her head, rustling her willow-leaf hair. “Not like you do, anyway. It’s more like … a trance. Some of us have a stronger connection to the Dream that we connect to in that state. I just sort of ...what’s the phrase Myrie uses..? ‘Drift away.’”  
The charr gave a grunt. “Still sounds like sleeping to me, just a bit more odd. Bah, what do I know.” She raised her paws in a shrug. “When I was a cub, your kind wasn’t around.”   
“Thank you for letting me stay here, by the way,” Llumin said. The tavern-owner curled a cynical lip.   
“When I heard you were investigating that creep, Syska, I felt like helping you would be a matter of national honor.” She turned her head and spat into a distant bucket, proudly humming when it landed with a concerning clang. “Hopefully those old strategy books have been some help?”   
“They make for interesting reading,” Llumin said politely. She wrinkled her nose at a concerning rust-brown stain on a page that looked very much like it had been stabbed at least once by a greasy meat-knife. The bartender sighed.   
“You don’t need to polish this rusty gear, cub,” she said. “I wondered if they might help with some insight into how she might be thinking, but I suppose you can’t catch fish in a dry pond.”   
Llumin decided to not ask why one would even attempt such a task and managed to murmur something in assent. The barkeep perked up.   
“But there is one thing I can do – one final task that could help with your investigation.” She flipped out a stool and leaned on the creaky wood. “I may not have liked Syska, but even she somehow managed to find someone that could stand her presence. She used to have a companion of sorts – not sure if they were bandmates or friends or whatever they’d have called their relationship – but he used to come here all the time.”  
“Used to?”   
“Yeah.” The barkeeper’s smile widened, displaying a frightening amount of pointed leonine teeth. “Until I threw him out for trying to start fights. A little scrabble’s to be expected in a bar, but he always fought dirty and then expected us to believe he didn’t.” She leaned back, tail swaying. “He did it for coin, I think. Honorless gladium. He’d sell out his own sire for gold. Last I heard, he’d joined up with the Vigil and managed to get himself stationed in the Shiverpeaks. Lucky for us, he’s decided to make a quick pit stop in our lovely hovel here.”   
Llumin grimaced. “What choice company our lovely subject kept.”   
The charr threw her head back in a laugh. “If you think the backside of a krait’s lovely, sure, you could say that!” She grabbed a gnarled mop and plunged it into a bucket of powerfully-herbal water. “I let him come back if he promised to not start any more brawls, and he seems to have kept his end of the bargain so far,” she said. “But burn me if he doesn’t seem more suspicious than before. I would’ve thought the Vigil would’ve straightened those knots from his tail, forced him to shape up.” She stabbed the worn, raggedy mop-head into the floor. “Talk with him. See if you can figure out why that living trash-bag’s been so skittish in my tavern, and I’ll let you and anyone you travel with get free drinks for life.”   
Despite herself, Llumin gave a laugh. “You may want to consider that offer,” she smiled, “but I’m in. When does he usually arrive?”   
There was a creak at the door. A brawny, oak-furred charr garbed in Vigil armor shoved his broad shoulders through.   
“Hey, barkeep,” he swaggered, “door was still closed! Your hours are from three hours past sunrise until dusk!”   
The charr’s grip on her mop-handle was murderous. “You’re wondering where Ridgerunner is? Behold the lush.” She threw the mop back into its bucket. “If you need me, I’ll be carving meat.” She turned her head and gave a low hiss, which Llumin barely caught. “Better for the floors that way. Blood’s a lot harder to wash out than beer.”


	88. Arc 4, Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khimma and Klixx prepare to accompany Selana into the volcano and muse on their allies.

  
“Get down from there!”  A wrench hurtled through the air and barely missed the tiny golem, which had been perched delicately on the edge of a box of crystals.  The silver automaton gave a gleeful whirr and hopped down before running back towards a pair of familiar electroplated armored boots.    
  “Will you quit bullying my poor SHU-TY?”  Khimma scooped the golem up and patted its domed head.  It gave a happy chirr.    
  “That _thing_ is an abomination!  A Destroyer couldn’t do as much damage as it has done for the past three weeks to my collection of leather-bound shoes!”  Klixx’s eyes narrowed as he stomped over to where his tool had landed and brandished it at the golem again.  
  “Well, maybe if you wouldn’t throw things at him whenever he just tries to do his job, he wouldn’t be so grumpy,” Khimma said, sticking her tongue out at her krewemate.  SHU-TY gave an affirmative series of electronic chirps.  “I have to admit, though, I’m curious as to these crystals Nettle had shipped down here.”  She set the tiny golem down.  As soon as it was out of her sight, the automaton half-turned towards Klixx and raised a three-fingered hand, whirring the electromagnetic fingers on it with an ominous burble.    
  “Did you see that?”  The elementalist’s ears twitched irately.  “Don’t tell me that you did not see that!”    
  “I see some impressive readings,” Khimma said.  She bent over, nearly falling into the large crate, and pulled out a crystal that had been missed when it was being unpacked.  She flipped her metal helmet down, holographic lenses flickering over her eyes and providing a readout.  “According to the atheroresonance projections, these crystals are something similar to what the charr are using against their ghosts in Ascalon.  In theory,” she said, setting it down and picking up the shipping manifest from the dismantled  box-top, “these should be able to not only trap a ghost, but allow it to be subdued and used for creating more sentient golems that will be able to more accurately follow their operators’ orders.  This could be great, Klixx!” She whipped the helmet off, wincing as it snagged on her ear.    
  Her gray-skinned krewemate gave an uncertain hum.  “I wouldn’t trust Nettle as far as SHU-TY could trip her,” he muttered.  “She’s resourceful and frighteningly intelligent for a non-asura, I’ll give her that, but never once has the word ‘helpful’ come to mind when describing her.  And this manifest mentions at least five boxes, so why do we have three empty ones here?”  He picked up the crystal and inspected it, holding it up to the weak lantern-light above them.  “Hopefully, I’ll be proven wrong,” he sighed.  “Maybe it’s just been delayed.  When are the tall folk heading out?”  
  “We’re planning on leaving very shortly.”  Selana’s brilliant hair glowed like flame as she bent her head into the tent.  “Are you ready?”  
  Khimma grinned and nudged Klixx in the arm.  “A volcanic extraction mission?  Our ancestors were underground-dwellers.  This should be just like a close-up historic mission for us, eh, Klixx?”    
  The statician grimaced.  “Sure.”    
  Selana gave a quick nod.  “Good.  Llumin has already made some headway on her probing into Syska’s background, but nothing concrete yet.  She’ll probably be following the next point by the time we make to Mount Maelstrom.”


	89. Arc 4, Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin finds her first lead.

  


Ignavus Ridgerunner was as unpleasant and greasy-looking as the his fur beneath his dull armor.  When he had seated himself at his table and demanded his beer, which was slammed on the table and sloshed a bit on his lap, he spent the next two minutes alternating sipping the drink, quaffing it, and letting loose some abhorrent belches with the likely intent of attempting to repel the pale sylvari that had bought him his drink.  He bared his teeth in a grin at Llumin.    
  “So,” he drawled, scraping his eyes down her with distaste, “you’re the Commander of the Pact I’ve been hearing so much about.”    
  “I am.”  She raised a brow as he upended his mug over his open mouth.  “And I suppose,” she said, lowering her voice and resting her chin on her hand, “that you are the one who’s been selling Vigil weapons to the Flame Legion.”    
She was glad that the mug was empty; as it was, the sudden coughing fit that overcame Ignavus flecked her face with phlegm and musty-smelling spit.  Llumin grimaced and slowly wiped her face clean.    
“Where…” His yellowed eyes were wide; to her amusement, she saw that his tail had bushed nervously. “Where did you hear that?”  He gave a series of low rumbles and recomposed himself.  “I mean, you can’t prove anything.”  He crossed his arms and sneered.    
  Llumin calmly reached into her pack.  “I can’t, no, but this can.”  She extracted a cloth-wrapped weapon and set it on the table.  The skin beneath the Vigil’s eyes paled.  “You recognize this gun, don’t you?”  She tapped a fingernail on the pitted metal.  “A sharp-eyed guard had noticed the symbol and was wondering if I knew anything about caravans being raided by Flame Legion.  We talked about it and realized that there was no record of weapon transports anywhere near where her patrol had been.  Long story short,” she said, pulling the gun back and wrapping it again, “your superior had been fully aware of and authorizing sales to the Flame Legion with your help.”  Her smile was grim.  “The more I learn about you and her, the less-pleasant your circumstances seem.”    
  His nonchalant façade quavered for another moment before it finally broke.  “Scorch it,” he hissed, hunching over the table and looking frantically around.  “Okay, look, I knew Syska's schemes would get us both busted by the brass. For the record, I never gave anything to the Flame Legion.  It was all her idea.  She said that no one would miss a few crates here or there,” he muttered.  “All I know is that one day she went up to one of the Flame Legion’s camps and told me to wait outside.  There was a whole bunch of lights and noise, and at the end of it all, she just staggered outside by herself.”  
  “By herself?  She didn’t have any contacts follow her to the entrance or anything?”  
“No, no-one followed her,” he said. He grimaced and rubbed his hands together nervously.  “She told me to keep quiet about this, ‘or else,’ and she ran off after that.  I haven’t seen her since, honest.” He reached behind him; Llumin’s hand strayed to her pistol at her side.  Instead of a weapon, what he pulled out was a portal stone with a carved symbol of a flame over a charr skull.  “They contacted her using a stone like this for the exchanges.  If I let you go there and sort it out, you’ll let me off the hook, right?”    
  “It's a start,” Llumin said distastefully.  “But I’m not in much of a position to choose my informants.  And if you lie to me, I'll make sure every officer in the Black Citadel hears about you moonlighting as an arms dealer.”    
  She stood, and the charr quickly scrabbled to his feet in a sloppy salute.  “Thank you.  I won’t let you down, Commander,” he said.    
  Llumin looked down at the stone before returning her gaze to him.  “For your sake, soldier, I hope not.”  The portal-stone in her hand flickered, the magic within it stretched and warped her view of the training fields and the tavern, interspersing it with the whirling eddies of snow and the high mountains of the Shiverpeaks.  As the sensations passed, leaving her standing in front of a narrow, craggy entrance to the Flame Legion camp near Onagar Bivouac, she sent up a prayer to the Pale Tree and to the human gods.  _Now,_ she thought hopefully, _I can finally find my answers…_


	90. Arc 4, Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selana and the asura make an unexpected discovery in the heart of the volcano.

Elsewhere, Selana, Khimma, and Klixx had finally ascended to the cavern in Mount Maelstrom.  Despite the protective casings of their golems, the asura were suffering only slightly less than the human from the oppressive heat.    
  “The air purifier readings on my hazmat suit say that overexposure to these fumes from the lava could be hazardous,” Khimma said, voice tinny through her golem’s interface.    
  “According to my map,” Klixx said, his suit muffling him as well, “Tactician Syska’s troops should be further in the cavern.”    
  “Why would they be stationed so closely to the lava?  I know destroyers spawn from there,” Selana said, pausing to shove her matted bangs aside, “but I would have thought they would at least pace themselves a bit further to allow any snipers to catch more hazardous foes at range.”    
  Klixx’s suit had paused by one of the obsidian walls.  “Something’s definitely not adding up here,” he muttered.  The exosuit gave a descending hum.  The magic panel for the cockpit went down with a hiss, and he hopped out.    
  “What are you – ?  Klixx, be careful!”  
  “I’m no bookah, Khimma,” he said.  He spread his squat hands over the wall and squinted.  “Some of these crystal formations are... unnatural.”  
 “We’re in a volcano; how can you tell?”  
He gave her a withering look.  “Elementalist, one; asura, two; and _not blind_ , three.”  He pointed towards the ceiling.  “These are ordered in some sort of pattern.  I don’t know who set them there or how, but they’re obviously some sort of magic, and I can’t quite figure it out.”  He crossed his arms and tapped his chin.  “The symmetry seems familiar… whatever resonance is in them seems a lot like the ones we just got sent, but it’s hard to tell since there’s some sort of interference making it hard to get a read on what they are.  It almost seems like some form of necromancy…”    
  Khimma’s golem clanked over to where Klixx stood.  “Are they hostile?”  
  “While you two debate on crystal formations, there are soldiers in here that need our help,” Selana said frostily.  “Stay behind if you want, but I’m going further in.”  
  
_I may have been too snappy with them,_ she thought to herself, pausing to duck beneath a stalactite.  In unfamiliar territory, Selana knew it was better to err on the side of caution, but the gnawing sense of responsibility she felt towards Llumin and the trapped soldiers urged her on.  The flame that she held conjured in one hand lit up the shadows that the nearby bubbling lava couldn’t quite reach.  She coughed into her elbow and squinted.  More crystals lined the walls and alongside the floor, their amethyst spires stabbing from the ground like daggers, sharp and threatening.  Klixx was right; something about them seemed off.  The elementalist felt a cold line of unease trickle down her spine.  Then, her eyes widened.    
  “They’re here!  Klixx, Khimma, I’ve found them!”    
The Vigil troops were slain; their corpses piled around burned-out husks of Destroyers.  Selana knelt towards one of them to close his eyes.  As she did, several things happened at once.  
  The first thing she noticed was a flickering haze around his and the others’ bodies.  There was a cry of warning from the asura – Khimma or Klixx, she didn’t know.  Then, his and the other corpses shattered into brilliant shards of mesmeric magic, and a series of snarls made her turn – too slowly – to catch sight of the flaming axe of a Destroyer as it hurtled towards her.  In a heartbeat, the ghost of her father appeared, parrying the blade with his own ghostly weapon with a look of grim determination.  The next second, his face was overcome with shock; the crystals that surrounded the illusion of corpses flared to life, and his parry faltered.  Selana had gathered her wits enough to strike at the monster, but by that time, Arcon had crumpled to the ground and was being dragged by some irresistible force towards the crystals.    
  “Selana, run!  It’s a trap,” he shouted.  His reached out to grab something – anything – before his ghost flew backwards and was absorbed into the crystals with a flash.  Selana gave a cry of dismay and lunged towards the cluster where she had seen him dissipate, but his ghostly light had already been transferred to another along the ceiling. While she and the asura battled the Destroyers below and struggled towards the exit, she could only watch helplessly as her father’s ghost was forced along and through the crystals in a dizzying pattern until he was out of sight.    
  “Father!”  Selana’s voice cracked.  
  “He’s gone, Selana,” Khimma said softly.  The guardian stood outside the now-burned hull of the hazmat suit.  She reached up and placed a hand on her wrist.  “I’m sorry.”  
  “Syska knew about this; she had to,” the elementalist said.  Her throat bobbed, and her jaw set.  “Whoever those were, or whatever she is – she’s in on this.  She tried to have us killed!”    
There was a low rumble from below the earth; a boiling lava bubble popped and sent hot magma spewing towards them.  Klixx hurriedly threw an earthen shield above them.    
  “And she will have accomplished her mission if we don’t get out of here soon!  The volcano’s about to have at least a small eruption, and we might be elementalists, but lava does tend to end up killing whatever’s in it!”    
  “Come on!”  Khimma pulled on Selana’s arm with surprising strength.  “We can mourn later – for now we’ve got to live so we can shove it in this imposter’s face!”    



	91. Arc 4, Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin's investigation leads her to a disturbing truth.

  
  
Llumin crept along the wall slowly, blade and pistol already drawn as she advanced towards the Flame Legion camp.  As she turned a corner, she saw something that made her step back in shock:  The entrance was blocked by vines.  She turned around to look behind her, and her brows furrowed in confusion.    
  “Trahearne?”    
  “That’s _Marshal_ Trahearne, Commander. You’re just in time,” he said coolly.  He marched towards her. “I’ve heard about the Flame Legion’s use of Vigil weaponry.  One of our informants says that they’re planning on attacking our allies the Black Citadel using them.  We can’t have that, especially when we need to keep what allies we have. I’ve assembled a small strike team to help us deal with this before it gets out of hand. They’re planning on marching tonight and are headed this way.”    
  Llumin frowned. “Why did you block off the entrance to the camp?”  She couldn’t keep the suspicion from her voice.  
The Firstborn glared at her.    “Because I don't want anything to distract us from the coming battle. And if you ever take that tone with me again, I'll have you up on a charge of insubordination.”    
  “But I…”  The mesmer clenched her jaw at the eyebrow he raised.  She brushed off the pang in her chest as stress.  “Yes, sir. It won’t happen again.”   
  They walked in silence away from the vines.  She didn’t even notice the scouts until they stepped from the shadows, looking towards Trahearne with their weapons drawn. She tried to ignore the glares some of them sent her.    
  “Hurry, Commander.  Our allies are waiting.”    
  “But I think I’ve found out something about Syska – something important!  It’s in that camp; it’ll only take a moment – !”    
He whirled around.  “For the last time, shut up about the camp,” he snapped.  “We need to get to the battle before the defenders are overrun.  We can’t take out the dragons until we’ve dealt with the Flame Legion here.  They’ve been undermining us for too long.”  He held up a hand and looked down the mountain pass.  His eyes narrowed.  “Do you see them?”    
  Llumin looked down the ravine towards the pass; the scene below was a blur of chaos.  Flame Legion charr clashed with Iron Legion and Vigil soldiers, and the cacophony of shouts and gunfire echoed up the mountains.  The relative silence of the Flame camp was a welcome memory to the madness below.  How had she missed it before?    
  A sudden wave of nausea sent her stumbling forward.    
“Watch your step, Commander,” Trahearne said, glaring at her.    
“I’m not feeling so good,” she said hoarsely.  “Something’s wrong.”  The scene below them blurred.    
“Quit your sniveling and march. We need to win this.”    
She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded mutely, praying that the tears that slipped past her eyes could be mistaken for melting snowflakes.  In her mind was a dull buzzing, as if an insect had found its way inside her head.  The unease dulled her senses.  There was a faint pull on her arm, a steadying of sorts.  She raised her head to thank her helper, and her eyes widened.  Dierdre Firestone’s ghost laid a single finger against her lips.    
  “You’re welcome,” she mouthed, smiling gently. Llumin’s eyes widened, but her mother’s ghost merely gave her a smile before fading.  “I will always protect you, my little hope-light,” she said, her voice as soft and gentle as the dawn.   
 Llumin’s heart rose, and she focused more on her footing as they passed a copse of scraggly pines. To her surprise, Caithe dropped from their shadows.  She nearly called to her, but thought of what Trahearne would have said in his foul mood and was instead silent. 

 

In mere moments, the battle was upon them.  The sounds of gunfire echoed like thunder around her, and the flashes of gunpowder and of magic did not help her disorientation.   
  “The Flame Legion is a dangerous foe; we cannot let them win today,” Caithe shouted, parrying the claws of an enemy charr before sinking her daggers deeply into his chest.  She kicked the gurgling body aside before diving back into the fray.    
  “What are you even doing here?” Llumin asked, confused.  
Caithe grunted and kicked away an enemy that had landed a solid hit.  “I’m making sure this goes right.  Now quit talking; there’s a fight going on!”  
Llumin’s grasp on her sword faltered.  “Very well,” she said, “but you owe me an explanation.”   Thankfully, her pistol shot true, stopping an attacker with an illusory bullet that killed his mind even as his body lacked the fatal wound.  Channeling magic seemed to take more of a toll than usual.  Surely this was a danger to all of them!   
  “Tra – Marshal!”  
The necromancer barely gave her a glance as he whirled Caladbolg in a deadly circle, severing limbs from the enemies that surrounded him. “Stay focused, Commander. The enemy is upon us. Stop second-guessing me and destroy them!”  
  “But I’m not – Oh, thorns blight you,” she muttered. 

 

  
Within what seemed like an eternity, the Flame Legion soon lay defeated at the Pact’s feet.  Llumin couldn’t bring herself to celebrate with the others; there was too much on her mind. She stalked over to Trahearne.    
  “Was that who I thought it was on the field?”  She gestured towards the now-silent battleground.  “Did you really bring in a member of Destiny’s Edge to this battle?”  She shook her head angrily.  “I’m having trouble understanding all of this.”  She sheathed her sword and turned back towards the bivouac.  “I need to find that camp.”    
  There was a sudden, solid grasp on her arm.   
  “Don’t bother with it,” Trahearne said coldly.  “There’s nothing in that camp.  Stay away from it.  That’s an order.”  
  She shook her arm free. “What’s wrong with me, Trahearne? What’s wrong with _you_?  Why are you acting like this?”  Her eyes narrowed.  “Why are you trying to keep me from that camp?”  
  “Because you’re unfit for duty,” he sneered.  “You’re unfit to command.  You’re even more naive than I thought if you really think I care about what happens to you.  You’re sick, unable to perform,” he hissed, “because you’re seeing things like this…”  
  The leaves of his skin browned and rotted off him as he bent double and screamed in agony.  Llumin tried in vain to pull free from his grasp, watching with horrified eyes as the allies around them suddenly fell to the ground in their death throes, howling in pain like a hellish choir as they crumpled around her.    
  “I knew something was off, I just knew it,” she hissed to herself.  She raised her sword to cut off the grasping hand, but the false Trahearne’s other hand reached out and wrestled her to the ground.  The face she had once known morphed and melted like wax, revealing an illusory undead giant towering above her.  It snarled at her through broken teeth.  
  “Foolish plant-child,” it laughed with its drowned voice.  “How foolish you were to follow our trail.  Now you shall die as you were given to your Pale Tree – alone, sick, and with no-one to weep for you.”    
  “She is not alone.”  Dierdre’s ghostly blade of ice slashed through the giant’s wrist.  It turned empty eyesockets to her and screamed in pain, releasing Llumin with its other hand and reeling back.  The ghost’s eyes blazed with rage to match any Ascalonian specter.  “Leave my daughter alone.”  She moved like a thought, stepping like a whisper behind the undead ghoul and cutting its hamstring.  “I can only do so much, Llumin,” she said.  “You must finish it off; I’ll keep it distracted!”    
  How had she missed the illusions?  What signs had she missed?  Llumin rolled aside from the single-handed giant’s strike, switching to her staff and channeling her magic to teleport further away and leaving her own afterimage behind.  Her eyes widened.  The sickness.  The blurred vision.  Her own magic had interacted with the Orrian illusions.  It was trying to warn her, and she was still taken in. Whatever wanted to keep her from the camp was powerful.  Rage filled her veins like white-hot metal.  Every illusion had a weak point; no matter how strong the mesmer, whoever was casting it had left at least one point that would make it shatter.    
  “Dierdre!  I need you to have it turn from me,” she called.  The ghost turned her head and gave a brief nod.  She closed ephemeral eyes and concentrated; within seconds, a blast of white flame shot from the earth, sending the illusory giant staggering back and clawing at its face.   
  “It won’t last forever,” the ghost shouted.  “Move, Llumin!”  
The sylvari gave a battle cry as she ran up the side of a large rock; concentrating, she teleported across the short distance, shook her head, and landed heavily on the giant’s shoulders.  It bucked and shook itself, trying to dislodge her.  She raised her sword high and plunged it at the nape of the giant’s neck.  With a long howl, it stiffened before pitching forward onto the trampled ground.  Llumin tumbled to the earth and rolled, standing on unsteady feet as she watched it for any further movement.  Seconds later, the ghostly image of the undead shattered, tainted purple mesmer magic whirling away on the mountain breeze.  Llumin nearly fell on her knees from exhaustion and relief.    
  “We can’t rest just yet, love,” her mother’s ghost said gently. “Come on.  Let’s get to that camp.”  
  


The vines that had blocked the entrance were gone, and the sounds and smells of the Flame Legion were no more; instead, a scorched-out Pact camp lay in ruins before her.  Another illusion, she thought.  She doubted that Ridgerunner would have noticed; he likely thought that the former Pact camp, small as it was and disguised, was the Flame illusion it once had pretended to be.  Llumin coughed as the foul stench of rotten meat filled her nose.  There had been an attack here, and from what she could see, there were no survivors.  A single corpse by the tents drew her attention; the tawny fur seemed familiar.  She braced herself and walked towards it, kneeling to get a better view.    
Before her, the rotting corpse of Tactician Syska lay pathetically like an unwanted, savaged rug.  Llumin’s stomach lurched.  She had been dead for at least a week.  There was no way she would have been up here after the injuries she had sustained in Orr – unless whoever “Syska” was was an imposter.    
  She stood and wiped the grime from her hands as best she could on the leaves of her armor.  As she did, a box in the corner caught her eye.  A line of small crystals, some ground into a fine powder, trailed up to it.  Was it an explosive?  If so, why hadn’t it gone off?  Llumin cautiously walked towards it, opening a small portal to teleport to if her investigation backfired.  As she lifted the lid, there was a sound like a gasp. The ghost of Dierdre looked stretched, as if she was being pulled towards the powder and towards the crystals.    
  “Llumin, stand back! I don’t know what these can – !”  
She gave a single sharp cry before flashing out of existence in a burst of spectral light.  As if on instinct, Llumin opened the other end of the portal and teleported out of its range.  When she had blinked the stars from her eyes, she could no longer sense the human’s ghost.   
  “Mother?” Her voice seemed smaller than it should have been.  She looked around, as if the ghost had merely hidden behind or underneath something.  “Dierdre?”  She lifted the lid on the box of crystals, but the faint glow that had lit it up was no more; Llumin thought she saw the same light reflecting in a crystal on the wall of the camp, but it, too winked out.  She shook her head.  Ghosts didn’t behave in the ways normal magic or living things did.  The important thing was that she had discovered proof of her innocence – and a danger closer to the Pact’s heart than before.    


 

To her surprise, when she paused by a nearby Pact outpost to repair her armor, Ignavus Ridgerunner was nearby.    
  “You aren’t an illusion, are you?”  Even an idiot could have heard the exhaustion in her voice.

 His brows furrowed beneath his helm.    
   “What?  No.  Why?”  
 The sylvari sat heavily on a nearby split-pine bench.  “Because I’ve just found Syska.”  
  “Just found…  I thought Syska was at the artillery camp!”  
  “You’re not the only one,” Llumin said grimly.  “Whoever is down there is an imposter.  I found Syska’s body; she’s been dead for longer than she’s been in the camp.”  She shifted to the side and winced; apparently some of the wounds she had earned were worse than she had initially thought.  “I need you to send a word to Trahearne. Let him know what I found.”  
  “Yeah, I’ll do that.  And if the brass ever come sniffing around my...extra-curricular activities...you'll cover for me? Tell them that it was all Syska?”  He licked his lips nervously.  Llumin gave him a tired, disgusted look. 

  “Tell Trahearne what I said.  Then we’ll see.”


	92. Arc 4, Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The imposter is revealed to Trahearne; a strategy to confront her is formed.

Trahearne unrolled the square of parchment delivered by the runner and frowned. He excused himself from the meeting between the Order representatives and walked to his tent before he turned to his desk. He lowered himself to sit in his chair.

  
“Something wrong?”

He quickly straightened. “Miss Viridia, come in. I assume Lord Radwing has something to say?”  
The marshal couldn’t quite keep himself from smirking at her irritation.

  
“This may come as a shock to you, Marshal, but no, he does not. I come bearing my own information concerning the crystals that were recently shipped to us. We seem to have lost a crate somewhere in the Onagar Bivouac and another two by Mount Maelstrom.”

  
He reached for his quill to begin writing. “Shipments can be waylaid or misplaced frequently in times like this, Agent.”

She sighed and seated herself in the chair across his desk.  A deliberate smile curved across her features as she sensed his discomfort and tapped at the ancient skull at her side.  Though Trahearne could tell it was an artifact of no small amount of power, whatever communication it gave to the sylvari across from him was heavily watched by both parties. His own distant inspections had been met with a cold awareness from the focus which more than bordered a spectral intelligence.

  
“Excuse me, Marshal, but am I interrupting something?” Nettle arched an eyebrow at him with undisguised impatience. “I’m fully aware of the fact that you’ve obviously received an important missive, but what I am talking about is nothing short of purposeful sabotage.”

  
“I’m sorry, there has been a lot going on.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please, if you can summarize?”

The necromancer gave a longsuffering sigh. “I have had several crates of special golemancy crystals custom-shipped to our artillery camp so that our golemancers and arcanotechnicians can see about wiring them into golems to re-purpose any lingering Orrian ghosts that may be freed upon destroying their corrupted bodies. As I have attempted to tell you once already, I believe that for some reason, the missing crates were purposefully misplaced. Whether or not this was due to malicious or misguided intentions, I cannot tell, but we did manage to retrieve most of our missing cargo.”

“And is there a culprit which has shown himself? You must have a reason for telling me this, Nettle, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“Clever as always, Marshal.” She removed a shipping manifesto from her belt pouch and placed it in front of him. “Notice something odd about this?”

Trahearne's eyes skimmed the letter on his desk; he did a double-take, and his brows furrowed. “It says it was authorized by an Agent Etlain.  There is no Agent Etlain,” he said quietly. “How did we manage to have someone forge the proper documentation, and how did the caravan guard misplace these crates without being noticed?”

  
The necromancer shrugged, lily-pale skin glowing a faint green in the tent. “I couldn’t tell you. This Jorrik fellow doesn’t seem exactly threatening for a caravan leader, but I’d investigate him. See what his peers would say before we would decide on any sort of punishment.”

Trahearne sighed. This was exactly what he didn’t need.

“The good news is,” Nettle said slowly, “we’ve managed to recover most of our shipments. According to the reported weight, we may have lost some of our crystals, but with the journey they’ve been through, I’m impressed we’ve managed to recover as much as we have.”

“That is a relief,” Trahearne said. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will let our contacts in Rata Sum know.”

Nettle beamed. “Anything for the mission of the Pact, Marshal,” she said, and bowed before taking her leave.

 

He couldn’t help but feel his shoulders relax marginally as she left. The marshal returned his gaze to the scribbled parchment in front of him, written in a nervous hand. His eyes widened.

“Marshal Trahearne,” it read. “Syska is not as she seems. Will return to camp to explain my findings. Do not tell her of my return, and stay alert. You are in danger.” What looked like a “Sincerely,” had been crossed out hastily and replaced with a single dash before Llumin’s closing signature. His brow furrowed. With Selana, the Priory asura, Llumin, and most of the other Knights of Gryphon absent or elsewhere, there were few he thought observant enough to stay by him in the event of an attack. Unless…

 

“Agent Viridia,” Trahearne said as he entered her experiments tent and walked towards her.

She turned from a set of glass vials filled halfway with ochre fluid and bubbling, ominous-looking potions and gave him an impatient stare.  
“Yes? Back so soon with the details on Peacemaker Jarrik?”

“No, but I need you to remain alert,” he said flatly. “I’m afraid your experiments will have to wait.”

Her jaw clenched in frustration as she took a pair of faintly-glowing crystals from her table and slipped them into a knotted leather pouch. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said. “But suffice it to say that I will need someone to help watch my back until Llumin, Selana, and the others have returned.”

She gave a thin smile. “According to them, I’m about the last person you’d want watching your back.”

“Desperate times,” he muttered. “Let me know if anyone seems to be behaving differently, and keep an eye on Syska if she stops by,” he ordered.

“Still nettled at her comment about you being swayed by Llumin’s sky-blue eyes?” she smirked.

“No,” he said. “This is something much more important than any petty comment she has made. Report to me if you see her make any sort of unexpected move.”

Nettle gave a half-bow and walked from her tent, following him as he left. “Whatever you wish, Marshal.”

 

Syska had requested a transfer to a different camp; for the moment, Trahearne enjoyed the relative peace of not having her around.

“If I could get some of her blood,” Nettle said cheerily, “I could tell you right away if she’s who she says she is.”

“If she knows who you are,” Trahearne said, “then that would only serve to alert her. As much as I dislike this, we’ll have to wait until the others are back with their evidence.”

Her gaze roved over the camp. “Do you suppose, Marshal, that they will return? What if Llumin is wrong? Or suppose that Selana did find Syska’s missing troops?”

The Marshal’s jaw shifted. “Those very questions are the reasons that we are waiting before we act.”

Nettle sighed and craned her neck to look skyward. A few terns circled above them on the cool air. “Well, that missive did seem rather urgent. I hope that whatever happens, our companions will return soon.”

 

On the outskirts of the camp, Myrie Ward appeared underneath a waypoint in a flash of blue light. She blinked the afterimages from her eyes and shook her head before turning to rummage in her wallet. Somehow, without fail, the automated systems of waypoint travel managed to take precisely the amount required for their upkeep maintained throughout Tyria. Over time, she supposed, it could become pricey, especially if the distance between the point desired and the current location was great, but she had to admit, aside from the initial disorientation, queasiness, and occasional motion-sickness, it was a nice change from having to trek through uncertain terrain and around hostile enemies. She glanced up the road, hearing the unmistakable crunch of gravel underfoot.  
“Llumin, hey!” She waved and walked towards the mesmer with a grin, which slowly faded at the other’s expression. “What’s -- ”

“Have your weapons at the ready. We’re going to be facing a foe that has wormed itself into the ranks under our noses.”

 

She looked as though she had been through the Underworld itself, Trahearne thought when he caught sight of Llumin. Selana, Khimma, Klixx, and Myrie walked slightly behind her; the thief was the only one who looked decently-energetic, if a bit confused and concerned.

“Wait here a moment,” he said to Nettle, who merely gave a sarcastic half-bow before distancing herself from him. Llumin’s eyes lit upon him. He gave a polite nod and walked to stand by her side. “I got your message, Commander. What's so dire that it demands a face-to-face meeting?”

She took a deep breath, steadying shot nerves. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but I believe that a Pact officer named Syska has been compromised by the enemy.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, I am.  Someone used illusions to trick me into giving that order. When I looked into Syska's background, it led me into another trap.”

His brows furrowed. “Couldn't you have sensed the illusions before?  Why didn't you notice them earlier?"

Her haunted eyes turned on him. “I don’t know. But I believe that’s part of the setup. Selana investigated her missing troops; when she went to the volcano…”

“There was no-one there,” the elementalist finished. “Just another trick using illusions to make us think that there were soldiers trapped by Destroyers.”

“Every time we dig into her background,” Llumin’s arm swept aside in a frustrated gesture, “we only find more illusions -- more questions. Selana and the asura could very well have ended up killed trying to find Syska’s troops.”

Trahearne’s face darkened. “I spoke with her recently. She seemed relatively normal… but if illusions are part of this problem, we're probably facing a powerful mesmer, especially if even you were able to miss them.”

“You were there, too, when I was investigating her,” Llumin murmured.

His ears pricked.

“At least, an illusory version of you," she amended. She couldn’t meet his gaze. “Even when I tried to reach out to sense any other magical interference, I wasn’t able to tear it down. There was some nausea, some visual confusion, but it wasn’t enough to break through it.”

The Marshal took a deep breath. “This is a lot to take in,” he said. “When I spoke to Syska in the hospital, aside from some frankly well-placed anger, she seemed completely normal. If she’s not really who she says she is, I’ll do what I can to force her to reveal herself, although mesmer magic is not my field of expertise.” A shadow flitted over his face; he raised his hand to shield his eyes and looked skyward. “That’s an Orrian eagle,” he muttered, hand straying towards Caladbolg. “Why would it be so far from Orr, unless…?”

“I’ve got it!” Myrie readied her bow and shot it down. She hopped aside as its corrupted body landed by her boots in a sodden clump of feathers and meat.

“Impressive shot,” Nettle said, arching a brow. “Now the Orrians will certainly know we’re on to them.”

 

The ground and nearby water burst with foes which the Circus battled in the usual fashion; Llumin and Trahearne fought back-to-back while trading and weaving spells alongside Selana, and Khimma and Klixx worked alongside each other, utilizing the tiny, terrifying SHU-TY to help distract and dismantle any Orrians that shambled too close to them. Somehow, Nettle managed to stalk even more quietly among the enemies; Khimma leapt back in disgust as an expertly-severed head rolled unexpectedly by her feet.

“Pick up your kills, Nettle,” she shouted at the most recent patch of moving shadows.

“I’ll only stop when they’re all dead,” came the calm reply. “Or when an Orrian may require you needing my aid.”

“Reassuring. Always reassuring,” muttered Klixx. He sent a stone spike hurtling through several Risen krait that wove towards them.

 

Soon, an uneasy silence descended on the encampment.

Selana sent one last foe crumpling to the ground in a pile of burned meat, leaned heavily on her staff, and grimaced.  
“Well, Marshal,” she panted, “what are your thoughts now?”

He took a shaking breath as his jaw shifted. When he finally spoke, his voice was as cold as the grave. “We need to confront Syska now and take her down. I’ll make sure to have any sympathizers removed from her location. We can’t afford to tip her off. She’s still lying low for now; our best chances to reveal her will be sooner rather than later.”

“She’s not here?” Llumin's eyes were wide with horror.

“No,” Trahearne said, impatience edging into his voice, “she had requested to be sent elsewhere to recover. I’m beginning to think she wanted to distance herself from our potential deaths.” He stormed towards the camp’s entrance. “She made this personal, Commander. You were the one she attacked.”

“Likely to get to you,” Nettle muttered.

They both ignored her.

“If you and I go to confront her," he said, "she’ll likely not run; she’ll probably think I’m turning you in for court-martialing, or to see you publicly disgraced. If there’s anything I think she’d like, that would be it – to see the Pact fractured before we can truly gain a foothold in Orr.”

“So what now? We can’t just attack her when she still looks like one of us.”

“No; we have to draw her out. We’ll go to her, Llumin,” he said, holstering Caladbolg. “The Pact needs to see us handle this as a united front, and she needs to expose herself for who -- or what -- she truly is.”

“We’ll keep an eye on the camp here and work on shoring up our defenses in case she tries sending more scouts or attacking us again while you’re gone,” Selana said. Myrie nodded.

“I managed to nick a few weapons from the Orrians’ bodies; I’ll try salvaging them to see what we can use while you’re gone.”

Llumin stared. “You’re not protesting us going alone? Not telling us that it’s too dangerous to do by ourselves?”

Myrie shook her head. “In other circumstances, I’d be raring at the bit to help you avenge your honor, but believe me,” she whispered, motioning for the sylvari to bend closer to her, “I saw the look on Trahearne’s face. Salad-bowl or not, I don’t know if you realize just how angry he is. You’ll have other troops guarding you there. Even if you aren’t in the highest favor with some, even the most disillusioned can realize that an Orrian mole is a bigger threat than you, Llumin.” She gave a wide, roguish grin. “I wish I could see the look on Syska’s face when she realizes what she’s done,” the thief giggled. “The gentle scholar’s on the warpath.”

Despite herself, Llumin smiled at the human’s chaotic enthusiasm.

“We’ll return safely, I promise,” she said, and clapped a hand on Myrie’s shoulder.

  
“You’d better,” she said. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.  “Otherwise, Selana’ll be the one you have to contend with! Best of luck, guys. Kormir guide you."


	93. Arc 4, Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The confrontation of Syska.

It should have been a lovely day, Llumin thought absently as she and Trahearne walked towards the Oceanside Ordnance camp. It was by the water, slightly inland, and surrounded by maple and other hardwood forests. The ocean spray scented the air with the crisp salt-tang that she had grown to both appreciate for its sharpness and dread for how often it had been interrupted by that of Orr’s brine. The soft sand squeaked underfoot as they marched on, and the sound of birdsong rose with the dawn.

  
Throughout the walk from the artillery camp to the Ordnance, Trahearne had not said a word. His gaze remained focused on the path ahead, and Llumin had to walk more quickly than she would have liked to keep up with his strides. She wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful for his silence; with all that had happened in the past few days – had it been even a week? -- the opportunity to gather her own thoughts was appreciated.

  
What was it that had drawn her mother’s ghost into those crystals? she wondered. Where was she now? Had they brought her to some sort of rest, allowing the ghost of Dierdre Firestone to have her final peace? She remembered the last words she had said – how she would always protect her – and shook her head. Something wasn’t adding up. Her head throbbed with a dull ache. There was too much to think of for now.

“Are you all right?”

Llumin barely realized that she had passed Trahearne. He had paused by the waves and waited for her to turn back towards him.

“I will be,” she said. “There’s a lot that’s been going on.”

His dry laugh both warmed and nettled her. “That’s putting it lightly, Valiant.”

“We don’t have time to talk about it now,” she said impatiently. She turned on her heel and strode forward again. “We can talk after we’ve cleared up this situation.”

“I would say to be careful and not push yourself,” he said quietly, as he walked back to her side, “but I know what position you’re in. You're not alone in this.”

Llumin gave a nod and marched on. For the rest of their walk to the camp, they walked together in silence.

 

The Pact guards at the entrance of the camp looked at Llumin suspiciously and gave Trahearne questioning looks as they walked past them, but allowed them to pass with no resistance.

  
“You made sure that none of her former allies were around her?” he asked. Llumin could sense his pull to draw Caladbolg like a comfort against the darkness of Orr. Had he really become so accustomed to it already, or did his nerves draw his hand to the blade?

“Yes, sir – none of her former allies or any that she’s managed to turn against you and the Commander are here.” The tall norn in his black-silver armor stared impassively down at him.  “There are some who may have their doubts,” he said firmly, “but I assure you, sir – we are all still loyal to the Pact. We are as committed to seeing this through as you.”

“Good.” Llumin heard the Marshal take a long, slow breath. "Thank you.  Carry on, and stay alert."  
  


"I doubt,” he said, turning back to Llumin as they walked towards the medical bay, “that this will be so easy as smoking her out.”  He walked towards the medical tent and stood at its entrance. Llumin came to a stop beside him behind some medical supplies, hiding herself from the view within.

“Tactician Syska,” he called. “I would like to speak to you. Could you step out a moment?”

There was a low growl from the tent. Within the shadows, the charr's eyes burned like embers.

“This had better be good, Marshal." She stalked out, and he stepped back to let her into the sunlight.

The charr did a double-take at the sight of Llumin but recovered quickly, crossing her arms and sneering.   “I’m sorry, sir, but the Commander has to go. I can’t be in the presence of this failure who shelled my soldiers.”

Trahearne raised a hand to still Llumin's protest.

“The Commander is here at my request, Tactician,” he said coolly. “Recent events have raised serious concerns about you.”

The charr’s lips curled. “I’ve had to deal with the deaths of my entire unit, Marshal,” she snarled, “and with some very difficult circumstances as of late. My allies could tell you more, but you'll forgive me if I'm not all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, so to speak.”

“Are you so certain of your alibi?” Trahearne's voice remained deathly calm. “I’ve heard reports from your former warbandmate, Ignavus Ridgerunner.  He says you’ve not quite been yourself for a while, have you?”

  
For a moment, she was silent; the charr's ears pressed against her skull. 

"On the contrary."  An unreadable expression flowed over Skyska's face as she slid her glare from one sylvari to the other. “I’ve never been better. In fact,” she said, stepping towards Llumin, “with all that’s been going on lately, sir, I’d dare say I’m doing better than you ever have.”

The charr lunged.  Caladbolg flashed in the air, and Syska reeled back with a yowling snarl, clutching a smoking hand to her chest.  Llumin's own blade had barely had enough time to leave its sheath. The Marshal stood in front of her with the Thorn of the Pale Tree blazing.

 "I should have known to be more wary,” Trahearne spat through clenched teeth. “My commander has always been more careful than what you would think.”

"No, I'm afraid not, _Marshal,_ " the charr hissed, staggering back.  "I intended to quietly exploit my position until you were dead and your war lost, but now it appears we have to get a bit more nasty.” She stepped forward as her fur began to slough off of rotting flesh. “Oh well," she sighed, grinning horrifically at them. "It’s much more comfortable to finally lose this form...”

Llumin's weapons were drawn.  "Trahearne, get back--!"

The spy threw her hand in an arc; shimmering, illusory waves threw Trahearne and Llumin off-balance as she rose into the air.

Disoriented archers scrambled to their places as the leonine maw melted; the slick-skinned skull of a towering Risen sneered down at them with glowing eyes. The guards outside the camp gave shouts of warning as they slowly realized what was going on.  She gave a mocking laugh and raised her free hand, summoning Risen from below the shallow ground in the medical camp.  Soldiers that had been resting their wounds scrabbled desperately for weapons as the undead broke past guards and began to trickle into the walls.

  
"You’re a hard man to kill, Trahearne,” Syska said as she returned to the ground. Her skeletal hands flexed around a drowned Orrian staff, “but I’ll keep trying until you, your commander, and your pitiful Pact are all dead!”


	94. Arc 4, Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Defeat of the Deceiver.

“Everyone get the wounded out!  Defend our perimeter!” Trahearne shouted.

Llumin’s torch blazed illusory flames as she threw it to the ground and vanished from sight.  Orrians shambled and lunged at the camp’s defenders, snarling and scrabbling with their drowned weapons as they moved towards her and the Marshal.

“I’m really thinking we should’ve brought backup,” she said, reappearing in a burst of magenta smoke to skewer a confused Risen jester.  It cackled once more before she drew her sword from its chest and lopped off its head.

“It would have signaled her too much,” Trahearne said. His gaze skimmed the camp, and his eyes widened.  “This isn’t even a full force.”  By now, the Pact guards had recovered their senses, and the undead soon found themselves more occupied with them than with the spy’s targets.

“For once, Trahearne, you’re right about something.”  The towering undead stood in several locations; illusions hurtled orbs of chaos magic at him.  “I have to applaud your drive; the dragon was certain that you would have successfully isolated yourself by now.” 

“You claim to be a servant of Zhaitan, yet you speak as if untouched by its corruption,” he said.  The Thorn cleft one illusion in two; the others rushed and shattered on him, clawing at his mind. 

“I am Labwan the Deciever, you miserable fern.” the Orrian spat.  “My will is Zhaitan’s – and his will is that you die today!”

“You’re unprepared.” Llumin’s confident voice echoed through the camp; her own illusions burst into being and stood defiant against the undead mesmer.  “You may think you’re at an advantage,” she said, “but look around you.” Her eyes flashed.  “Your forces are weak.  You’ve got no backup!  If anyone dies today,” she snarled, flashing next to her with blade drawn, “it is _you_!”  Her own illusions rushed at her with howls of rage as her rapier bit deeply into the undead’s side; Labwan roared in pain and brought her staff crashing down –

A cloud of purple butterflies obscured her vision.

“Doesn’t feel so nice, does it?”  Llumin mocked.  She rolled underneath the undead’s wide swipe and carved a line up her drowned ribcage.  “This is for my mother!”

Black blood ran in dark streams from the Orrian’s wounds.  “I may have made your trip hellish, tree-child,” she snarled, slamming her staff into Trahearne’s gut and sending him reeling back, “but I only _wish_ that I had been the one to hurt you that way!”

  She lunged forward, but a wave of energy from Caladbolg sent her reeling into the dark recesses of the now-empty tent.  Labwan gave a roar of frustration and ripped it away.  She started to rise and found Trahearne’s blade pressed against her throat and Llumin’s saber at her back.

“Don’t.  Lie.”  The pale sylvari's voice broke.  “ _Everything_ before this has been some sort of illusion or trap set by you and your minions.  How did you know to set one out for _her_?”

The undead laughed.  “Really, I’m flattered by your idiotic insistance.  Look around you, _Commander_ ,” she sneered.  “Maybe your own troops aren’t as trustworthy as they seem.” Dissonant music of the mesmer’s magic began to whine in the air. 

Llumin’s eyes narrowed.  Three fractured illusory diamonds spiraled between them. She crushed them in her hands, and the music stopped. “Your tricks won’t fool us again.” 

  “No,” Trahearne said.   He stepped forward, and Caladbolg’s pale blade pressed further into Labwan’s neck.   “Zhaitan will divide us no further.  No trick, scheme, or illusion will break us apart, and when he tries something like this again, he will face us not as one, but as a united Tyria, with the Pact and _all_ of its commanders rising against him.” 

With a violent whirl, the greatsword ripped her head from her body, and she crumpled to the ground, ichor spurting from her neck. 

The Marshal’s eyes blazed. “Tell _that_ to the Dragon on your way to the Underworld.”


	95. Arc 4, Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trahearne learns the truth about Llumin.

Myrie looked up from her sharpening stone at the rising cheers that came from the front of the camp.  She craned her neck and gave a groan of frustration. 

“Hey, Flamey-locks!” she shouted.  “I don’t suppose you can see over this crowd from that height of yours?”

Selana’s irate face flashed up from the crowd. 

“Norn and charr exist, remember?” she shouted.  “See if you can head to a vantage point!  Let me me know if you see Llumin.  Tell me if she’s safe!”

“What, can’t part the crowds this time?” 

The elementalist gave her a murderous glare.

“Kidding, kidding,” the thief muttered.  She stored her equipment, slung her pack over her shoulder, and started to climb a nearby tree.  Vaulting over the massed Pact soldiers wasn’t as difficult as it looked.  She carefully stepped and twisted over shoulders and helmets, kicking off from tent poles and tarped roofs as she painstakingly clambered her way up the side of a watchtower.  “’Scuse me, guildmate of the Commander coming through,” she muttered.  She firmly elbowed the guard aside enough to squeeze in and ignored his grunt of protest.  She squinted down.  “I see them,” she said, shouting down to Selana. 

The mesmer and the Marshal looked tired, but triumphant.  A small crowd of guards bustled around them, buzzing with questions.  Myrie squinted.  Although Llumin’s expression was understandable considering the recent battles and revelations, Trahearne’s brow was knit and his face troubled.  She saw him put a hand on Llumin’s arm and excuse himself.  The mesmer looked as though she opened her mouth to say something, but worry and confusion overtook her features, and she was soon surrounded by cheering and concerned soldiers.

 

Myrie slung down from a branch to land heavily in front of Selana.

“She might need a hand; I think something’s happened with Trahearne,” Myrie said.  “You go take care of your sister.  I’ll see what the fern’s up to.”

 

Trahearne’s head shot up as his tent flap was opened.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Myrie sighed.  “People might think you were hoping I was someone else.”

“Miss Ward, my apologies.”  He stood.  “I assume you’ve been caught up on the ordeal with the Orrian mesmer?”

“I got the gist of it,” she said.  She chewed on empty air for a second or two.  “Hey, I know that you and Llumin just had a big victory over that mole, but correct me if I’m wrong; you somehow don’t seem too thrilled with it.”

“You _are_ wrong,” he said tautly.  “If Labwan had been allowed to continue her deception, it’s entirely likely that the Pact would have died within months of her actions.  If I can’t trust my Commander…”  He sighed and sat heavily at his desk again.  Golden eyes glowed in the dim light.  “Myrie, is Llumin who she says she is?”

The thief blinked.  “Pardon?”

The Marshal stood and began to pace.  “Ever since I’ve known her, there’s been a … draw.  A pull of sorts.  I didn’t quite know what to attribute it towards.  All sylvari have, to varying levels, a heightened empathy with one another; for all those times I’ve been around her, she has always felt as though she’s been searching for something.  When she met Selana, it felt as though part of it was resolved, and I assumed it had to do with her Wyld Hunt.  Yet when we battled against Labwan the Deciever – ”

“Assume I don’t know the names of Orrian generals just for the class’s sake.”   Myrie flashed a strained smile.

Trahearne explained the situation.  “When we were fighting her,” he continued, “Llumin kept insisting on something to do with her mother.”  He rested his hands on his desk, brow furrowed as he stared at his maps of Orr.  “Sylvari,” he said slowly, “do not have blood parents.  We can all choose our own families, so to speak, with people taking on parental roles or those of mentors and siblings as we wish or see fit.  Being descended from the Pale Tree negates any sort of parentage in the way that you or other animalian races would see.  Yet I can’t shake the feeling that she was referring to the impossibility of having a mother other than the Tree.  So I ask you again, Myrie Ward,” he said, and his voice was somehow both cold and pleading, “is Llumin who she says she is?”

Myrie looked towards the painted ceiling of the tent and sighed.  “Well, Mists,” she swore.  “Of course it’d have to come out sooner.”  She slung her body into the chair opposite Trahearne’s desk and steepled her fingers.  “I’m… really not sure how to say this.”

“Has she been compromised?”  There was no mistaking the desperation in his voice.

“No!  No, she’s … she’s not compromised, Trahearne.  It’s just that there’s more to her than you might think.”

His expression was unreadable.  “Go on.” 

She took a long, slow breath. “I just hope Selana doesn’t kill me for this…”

Trahearne sat up.  “Selana?  Why would – ?”

“Oh, calm your leafy ferns down, Trahearne, and sit down!” Myrie snapped.

To her surprise, he did just that. 

For a moment, the thief was silent.  Then, she gave a long, low hum.  “All right!”  She gave a deafening clap. “There’s no way to get around this, so Llumin’s a sylvari that was once a human who was reborn through the Dream after she nearly died as a baby!  There!”  She sat back. 

Trahearne looked as though he’d been struck.  “Pardon?”

Myrie rolled her shoulders and sat forward.  “Okay, look.  This is why I said it gets really weird.  Llumin was originally born to Arcon and Dierdre Firestone, two human parents in Divinity’s Reach.  Judging from the look on your face, you already know who Selana Firestone is.  Selana’s parents were part of a covert military group that worked on weeding out fanatics from a cult that ruled Tyria almost 250 years ago. Problem is, the cult’s really good at blending in with people, as most are, and ended up figuring out that Dierdre was pregnant on her last mission to kill one of their Justicars.  No one’s really sure how, but they somehow cursed her unborn kid with Spectral Agony, which ended up nearly killing her after she was born.  
  When the gods didn’t seem to want to intervene directly to save baby Llumin, Lord and Lady Firestone decided to go an alternative route and try something no-one’d really thought of before.  Your kind had only recently emerged, and the greater part of Tyria wasn’t even aware you existed.  However, some of our spies had already learned a very basic idea about your Dream of Dreams, which I’m still fuzzy on.  They figured that with dreams, there was some sort of mind they came from, and if your people were born from the Dream, maybe it would work if there was just a consciousness inserted into there.”  She paused.  “You still with me?”

The Marshal blinked owlishly.  “I think so,” he said.  “Again, continue?”

Myrie sighed.  “I might be giving away some big important human government secrets here just so you’re certain that Llumin’s not some sort of spy.  I hope you’re memorizing this.  
 “Members of the Shining Blade met with the Pale Tree and asked if it’d be possible for Llumin to be reborn.  She gave them a soft maybe and said that if she was, she’d probably not remember anything about her past.  They went through with some big magical ritual or something that ended up being so traumatic that Selana had to have her memories repressed, and for all anyone knew, Llumin really was dead.  When she ended up being reborn two decades later, it took a lot of magic as well as her parents’ ghosts to point out that the reason she kind of felt out of place was because she hadn’t originally been sylvari.  They had vowed to protect her and Selana, who knows everything that happened now, after Nettle Viridia had begun experimenting on their blood.  Last I knew, Arcon and Dierdre Firestone’s ghosts were still haunt-protecting their daughters.”  She took a breath.  “If Llumin was saying something about her mother, she was talking about her ghost.  Something might have happened to her before she helped reveal Labwan’s deceit.”

Trahearne slowly sat back.

  Myrie’s brow furrowed.

“Hey, um. So I hope that doesn’t massively change your perception of her too much.  She’s a really great ally. Pretty powerful, too, from what I can tell.  She wouldn’t dream of hurting anyone, I think, if she can help it.”

He remained silent.

Myrie stood.  “Well, I hope that I don’t end up dead for what I’ve said.  Pretty sure the Pact is still out there celebrating and preparing to launch on Fort Trinity at your order.  I’ll take my leave?”  She gave him a hesitant salute and walked out.


	96. Arc 4, Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin expresses her concern for what she feels like is a betrayal; Myrie attempts to smooth things over.

“You _told_ him?”  Llumin’s hands were buried in her hair, eyes wide. 

“It wasn’t my idea,” Myrie protested.  “I just thought it looked like there was something wrong with you two, and I had to make sure that there wasn’t anything _bad_ that had happened…!”

“Which means that you told him!”  Llumin threw her hands in the air with a strained laugh.  “Why did you tell him?”

“He _asked_ , genius!  And can you blame him?  First he figures out that there’s a mole in his own army, which, by the way, he’s _still_ figuring out how to properly lead, then he realizes that there’s something off about you!  You really think he wouldn’t want to make sure he’s not being duped again?”

“Something off…?  What on _earth_ would make him think that there’s something off about me?”

“That’s what you’re focusing on?  Llumin, I know you’re smart, but sometimes, you make some really stupid choices with your priorities.”

The mesmer’s nostrils flared.  “Regardless of my priorities, that information was not yours to tell!  I wish you would have asked for my permission first!  Did Selana know?”

 “Did I know what?”  

Myrie paled.

Llumin whirled around, eyes blazing.  “She told Trahearne everything.”

The elementalist’s eyes latched onto the thief.  “You _what_?!”

The mesmer crumpled into a chair.  “She told him everything, Selana.  Everything about who I really am.”

Myrie stared at her.  “I really don’t see why you’re so upset about it,” she said.  “It was bound to come out sooner rather than later.  I understand that you probably wanted to tell him yourself, but think about it: Does it really change who you are?  Your ability to lead?”

“No, you don’t really understand, Myrie,” Llumin said.  “There’s a reason my parents kept what they did a secret.  To a lot of humans, I’m _sacrilege_.  To other sylvari, I could be seen as an abomination!”

“Those who we’ve met haven’t treated you that way!”

“We’ve been fortunate enough to meet with the more open-minded ones,” she admitted.  She took a shuddering breath.  “But Myrie, Myrie, you might not know what you’ve done.”

The thief sighed and scratched the back of her neck.  “Look, I’m sorry,” she said.  “From what I can tell now, though, you’re stuck with a couple of options.  You either avoid what’s happened and pretend that nothing’s been said – ”

“That would be impossible!”

“ – _or_ you go forward with your concerns and face your fears.  Llumin, you can’t let what others think of you or your heritage define you.  Did you let naysayers control whether or not you were able to lead the Pact?  Have you let what others have said in the past dictate your life?”  Myrie sat across from her and reached out to put a hand on her arm.  “Hey,” she said gently.  “You can’t let fear run your life.”  She smiled.  “Trahearne’s a nice guy.  I mean, he’s a bit bookish,” she said, ignoring the accusing glare Llumin gave her, “but if I were you, I’d talk to him.  You got through a whole bout against an Orrian _spy_ , Llumin, and you know what?  If I had to guess, I’d say he trusts you more than ever.  I doubt that he doesn’t consider you a friend.”  She patted her arm.  “Heck,” she grinned, “he might even _like_ you.  I mean, you can’t deny that you like him,” Myrie shrugged.  “But hey, one mountain after another, right?”

Llumin made a strangled noise that might have been a threat.

Selana uncrossed her arms and sighed.  “As rare as the occasion happens,” she said slowly, “I have to agree with Myrie.”

The sylvari turned her dark head.  “You really think so?”

“Llumin, I’ve grown up among nobles who’d sell their relatives to Dhuum if they thought it’d give them more political clout.  Your honesty isn’t something to be ashamed of.  Trahearne’s an ally, and I’d dare say we’re going to need us all to work together as well as we can.  If that requires getting through some messy subjects, than that’s what it’ll take.  Talk to him.  It’ll help smooth things over, and if something does go wrong,” she said, and her voice became eerily calm, “I’ll simply turn him into a living torch as a reminder for any who would dare harm you again.”

Myrie and Llumin stared at her in mute horror. 

“Kidding,” Selana sang.

“Flamey-locks, you’ve gotta _warn_ us when you try to be humorous,” Myrie said hoarsely.


	97. Arc 4, Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nettle and Llumin discuss potential strategies for the defenses and incursions towards Fort Trinity. Khimma and Klixx take on a mysterious bet.

 

Trahearne did not, in fact, call on Llumin that day.  He did not call on her the day after, either, or for the next couple after that.  It was completely understandable, given the sudden freedom from infiltration and the need to push towards clearing out and fortifying Fort Trinity, just south of Oxbow Isle.  While the mesmer fluctuated between annoyance, shame, and fear for what his opinion was, at the same time, she recognized the importance of the Pact’s mission, and did her best to shove her racing thoughts into a corner while she worked.

All things considered, it went quite well.

“Are you quite done dripping candle-wax onto your hand, or are you going to finish sealing the letter before it becomes thoroughly coated?”  Nettle’s dry voice broke into Llumin’s thoughts.  The mesmer swore briefly and righted the dish before she hurriedly pressed the letter shut and handed it off to a benevolently-patient runner.  The necromancer craned her neck and watched as the asura ran off.  “Ten seconds,” she said primly.  “I think that’s a new record for numbness to hot wax.”

“Why are you here again, Nettle?”  Llumin flexed her hand and picked at the flaking wax.  She scraped the excess back into the shallow dish and set it over the warmer to melt again.

The necromancer gave an indulgent sigh.  “Because I wish to advance science and our understanding of blood magic and its properties, regardless of what anyone else may think.”

Llumin had to physically restrain herself from sending a psychic bolt at the necromancer, though part of her wondered at the other’s expression if she meant to bait it.  The pale-skinned sylvari across from her smiled.

“There have been several approaches as to how we might make our move on the land occupied in what will hopefully soon be Fort Trinity,” Nettle said.  She reached towards Llumin’s desk and spread a few scrolls out.  “Naturally, since we will be in the edges of the Dragon’s domain, we will want to take precautions to keep from having our non-immune allies become puppets should one of them take an unfortunate plummet from some scaffolding or otherwise incur death.”

“Could you possibly speak any more blithely about such a serious subject?”

The necromancer pursed her lips.  “Yes, but people do tend to get rather irritated at that point.  Anyhow,” she said cheerily, “plans are here, and we need to figure out some form of magical protection against the Dragon’s power.  We’ve got a promising lead on some krait orb that a blood witch has been using to keep her people’s sacrifices from becoming vengeful puppets.  Judging from reports in the Order of Whispers, the radius can cover a delightfully-wide area, and it should be sufficient to cover multiple floors for an above and below-ground fort.  Our engineers and arcane experts have been working themselves into a frenzy working on what magical bases we know to see about making a prototype beacon that would create a protective shield with that as its power source.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Llumin said, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose with a free hand.  She slid the mission-plan towards her and began to skim it.  Across from her, she heard Nettle give a hum of surprise.

“And here I thought the office of Commander was more battle work,” she mused.  “I’m glad to see that you actually do look to see about the dangers you’re sending your troops into.”

“I have to,” Llumin said.  She failed to keep the irritation from her voice.  “Especially after the incident with Labwan, any slip-ups would only further negatively influence those who may still doubt my abilities.  I do hope,” she said, voice dropping to a cold whisper, “that you wouldn’t attempt any such sabotage.”

The necromancer rolled her eyes, turned around, and raised her leafy hair from the nape of her neck.  An intricate seal glowed with ancient magics, pulsing with the flow of her blood.  “Even if I wanted to,” she said, and her voice had become brittle as she lowered her hair and turned back around, “I wouldn’t be able.  Gryphon still keeps his tabs on me from wherever he is now.”

“And where is he?” Llumin wondered.  “It’s been ages since I’ve heard from him.” 

“Last I heard,” Nettle said, “he was somewhere near Lion’s Arch.  But that was weeks ago, and he’s likely moved on to whatever the Master of Whispers would have him do next.” 

“Commander, reports have just come in from our southern scouts!”  Khimma and Klixx skidded in nearly on top of each other, each holding either side of a large diagram. 

“We’ve been analyzing enemy movements – ” Klixx said.

“ – And according to our calculations and compared against Trahearne’s field notes – ”  Khimma continued.

“ – Which really are quite thorough – ” Klixx remarked.

“ – Given a safety net against draconic corruption, we should be able to move in on Trinity in a manner of weeks!”  The asura released the map, sending it rolling into a thin tube between them.  Khimma tapped it against Llumin’s desk with a proud beam.  “This is incredible, Commander; with all the work the Pact has accomplished, we’re well ahead of the Priory’s initial schedules for invasion!”

“That is good.” Nettle clapped, beaming.  “And I’ve just informed Llumin that we have that very net!”

Klixx’s skin paled.  “Commander,” he said tautly, “does this ‘net’ of hers require any blood sacrifices?”

“For once, no.”  Nettle rolled her eyes.  “You’d think I spend all my time in the Whispers’ tents, cackling evilly over some hapless fool in a torture chamber.”

The asura exchanged glances.  “You mean you don’t?”

Llumin raised her gaze from Nettle’s document.  “It’s actually very sound,” she said, shaking her head.  “I don’t know the specifics on the magic in that orb, but if you and some of the other Pact members can retrieve it, that would be just what we’d need to push forward.  We could probably find a way to replicate it in concentrated bursts to pave our way into the heart of Orr itself, directly to where the Dragon resides.”  She paused and glanced up at the sound of another runner, who dashed to her desk, tossed another sealed letter on top of a growing stack, and raced out.  Her eye caught the golden seal, and she barely refrained from lunging at it.

“Oooh, I recognize that look,” Khimma giggled. 

“Mm-hm,” Klixx hummed, placing his hands behind his back and beaming.  “So, what does the grand and lofty Marshal of the Pact have written for his Commander?”

Llumin rolled the letter shut with a snap.  “It’s been days since I’ve had any direct communication with Marshal Trahearne.  Though I am his most senior Commander, I would prefer to hear his opinions and advice directly from him rather than secondhand from other officers!”

Khimma gave an unconvinced hum and turned back to Klixx.  “What’s your bet?”

He squinted an eye shut and scratched his ear.  “Two days and ten silver.”

“Ha!  I give it one and a gold!”

Klixx’s eyes bulged.  “Write that down now and give me that waiver, because I want to collect on that outrageous bid.”

Khimma gave a luxurious sigh and scratched down the wager on a scrap of paper that had started to drift from Llumin’s desk.  “You’ll regret not betting higher one of these days,” she said primly.  “Really, you underestimate them, I think.”

“I might, but I also don’t want to deplete my already-strained coffers!”

“I _beg_ your pardon!”  Llumin’s eyes darted from one asura to the other.  “But could you please explain what is going on?”

The asura whirled around, eyes wide.  “Why, nothing, Commander,” Khimma wheedled.  “Just a friendly bit of betting!”

“On _people._ On people who sound suspiciously like your Commander and Marshal,” she said evenly.  “For _what_ reason I cannot possibly begin to guess.”

Nettle was the first to arch a brow at her.  “Well, in _that_ case.  Khimma, Klixx, I’m taking both of your bets and making it one night, by tonight, and doubling them.”

Both asura scrabbled for respective writing implements.  Llumin’s head throbbed.

“Out!  Out, all of you, and await further orders for your units and retrieving that orb!”  She slumped in her chair and rubbed her temples.  “The next time those lunatics cross my threshold,” she muttered to herself, “I’m going to convince at least one of them that they are moa…”


	98. Arc 4, Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylfia swears at the stars and chats with Myrie.

Scrape, dust, turn, scrape, stand, swing.  It was a good rhythm when you got the hang of it, Sylfia thought.  The polished heft of Ascalonian stone still worked wonders on Risen and other foes alike, and she was more than happy to keep it as well-maintained as it had kept her.  She brushed off another coating of dust and swung it for a final time before she nodded, gave a grunt, and took out an oilcloth.  
 Another new rhythm began.  Dip, wipe, squint, turn, repeat.  The pain in her shoulders ebbed with each turn of the cloth over the rough stone of the hammer-head.  Her shoulders burned from where Renvari’s swords had pierced through, and her ragged breaths still scraped past her ribcage as the skin beneath her joints and the toughened leaves of her armor prickled with the residual burning pain from the embers of her birth. 

More reminders, she thought, of how she had scrabbled for every moment of life out of death’s painful jaws.  She gave a sigh and rocked back onto her heels.  The pale moon stood like an unblinking eye against the dark skin of the night, freckled with stars.  It still unnerved her.  This close to Orr, she couldn’t help but imagine the Dragon’s own eye watching, unblinking, as they began their preparations into what had been for centuries its land.  What was it like, she wondered, waiting in its rotten hold? 

Sylfia had heard the rumors.  That Llumin had shelled a unit of Pact troops, only for it to be revealed that the whole thing had been engineered by Zhaitain and its generals.  It had nearly killed both her and Selana and had left dozens dead by its deception.  As it was, there were still some who questioned Llumin’s capacity to lead as the primary Commander.  Was giving her the second-in-command too much to ask?  Her age had been a matter of concern, the warrior knew.  She was younger than both Nettle and herself, though she supposed that if her human birth-age was brought into consideration, she was technically older.

 The math made her head hurt, and she grimaced.  A swig of stale ale from her tankard barely helped dull the pain.  She smacked her lips and frowned.  Poor choice.  Sylfia set her hammer down gently on its head and removed her bow.  As she worked on oiling the string, her thoughts continued to wander.  She thought of the Dream, and how others had heard of their Wyld Hunts from it.  Nettle’s dark mission to taste the blood of every major creature she encountered had come to a standstill with her shackling to the Order of Whispers.  Llumin’s quest to take on the Elder Dragons seemed an impossible task in itself.  But at least they _had_ those dreams, those quests. What was hers? 

She frowned up at the stars again.  “Blight you,” she muttered.  She set the bow aside and reached for her tankard again.  It was empty.  “Blight you, too,” she said crossly, and nudged it over with her foot.  A jolt of pain jagged its way up her leg at the movement, and she bit on her lip to keep from crying out.  Several oaths from the different races flashed through her head then, but she did not shout.  A single tear ran down her face and mixed with blood from her split lip.  Soon, as it had done before, the pain dulled back to its bearable ache.  Sylfia placed shaking hands on her knees and forced herself to stand.

“You’re up late.”  Myrie’s calm voice nearly lost the human her eyes; Sylfia barely had the presence of mind to keep from firing her twin arrows.

“Don’t you humans know not to sneak up on warriors at rest?” Sylfia spat. 

“I saw you crying,” Myrie said quietly.  “There’s been a lot of stress lately.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” the warrior said gruffly. 

“You sure?”

“It’s pain,” Sylfia said matter-of-factly. 

“Well, we’ve all suffered our own losses – ”

“Lissen, I ain’t talkin’ about metaphysical or psychic pain.”  She gave a grunt as she rolled her weapons back into their protective sheaths and placed them in her pack.  “Those I can deal with.  I’m talkin’ about this.”  She smacked a fist against her chest.  “These half-burned lungs of mine, this charred skin.  The feeling of embers in my muscles all the time.  Physical pain, Myrie.  _Real._ ”

Myrie came into the light and sat down, brow furrowed.  “Haven’t you gone to the Menders for this?”

The sylvari gave a dry chuckle.  “Mate, this is _after_ the Menders had their look at me.  Some days it’s better, others it’s worse.  The pain’s part of who I’ve been for a long while.”  She gave her knocked-over tankard a sidelong glance.  “Alcohol helps.”

“How long, though?”  Myrie picked up the tankard and set it on the table, ignoring the warrior’s protest.  “Come on, Sylfia, you were off it once.”

“Once,” the sylvari echoed, “before I nearly got burned to death again by Renvari.”

Myrie scratched her head.  “That golden sylvari psychopath?”

Sylfia snorted.  “Yeah, him.  Flirted with me while I was on fire, the maniac.”

The thief shuddered.  “I remember.” 

The two sat in silence for a moment. 

Sylfia shifted her jaw and turned her head.  “Why’re you over here, anyway?  Don’t you have your own tent with the Pact?”

The thief shrugged.  “Can’t sleep.” 

The warrior grunted.  “I’d offer you some whiskey, but I drank that an hour ago.”

Myrie snickered.  “Honestly, Sylfia, I’d expect nothing less.”  She stared at the embers of the fire.  “Fort Trinity,” she said quietly.  “I don’t think I ever thought I’d be heading to Orr back when I was a kid in Divinity’s Reach.”

“Oh?”  The warrior hunched over her makeshift box-chair and squinted an eye shut.  “Never dreamed of becoming a legendary hero to slay a dragon, eh?”

Myrie smiled.  “No, not really.” She sat back.  “I dreamed of my dad waking up from his waking nightmare.”  She frowned.  “Okay, and I dreamed of pushing my cousins’ upturned little noses and perfect curls into the mud, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.” 

Sylfia’s brow rose.  “Explain to me what cousins are and why you wanted to sully what sound like ridiculous hairstyles?”

“Some other time.”  Myrie waved her hand.  “It’s a bit late for any gut-spilling now.”

“Heard that you ended up spilling someone else’s guts earlier.”  The sylvari stared into the fire.  “Managed to survive the sisters’ wrath, eh?”

“Llumin and Sylfia are surprisingly forgiving,” Myrie said.  “Wouldn’t have believed that when I first met the noble.”  Shock swept over her features.  “Wait, nobody else heard – ?”

“I made a suitably-rowdy commotion when I figured out what was going on,” Sylfia gestured vaguely.  “No worries about Llumin’s secret getting out any further.  Nettle won’t tell.  She can’t.”  She sat up and squinted.  “Wait, that almost looks like our dear resident Commander,” she muttered.  “What’s she – ?”  She half-rose.

  Myrie tugged on her arm and she sat heavily back on her box.  “I don’t know, but don’t interrupt her, and don’t mention anything about anyone or anything.  We’re just chatting, and she’s – ”

“Coming our way, shut up,” Sylfia hissed, fingers fluttering over Myrie’s arm.  “I don’t know _what_ that snare of emotions she’s feeling is, but if my second-hand empathy is _that_ potent, just be quiet and let her pass by.”


	99. Arc 4, Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llumin visits Trahearne for a cup of tea.

Chapter 28:

Llumin strode by the silent Vigil encampment with single-minded determination beneath the moonlit sky.  Several books and tomes weighed her pack down, and its straps bit into her shoulders as she walked through the camp.  The Order’s silver flame on its maroon background fluttered from its flags in the cool air.  Really, she thought, I’d wish that people would use the Pact design that Lyca came up with, but I suppose old loyalties are hard to break.

The more cynical part of her mind pointed out that it was possible that the Orders were warily planning for a future where the Pact would no longer exist.  She shook her head and kept walking. 

 

She shouldn’t have been surprised that the Marshal was still awake.  She could see the flickering flame of candle-light through the tent-flap as she approached.  Her veins glowed a faint lavender in the dim light as she softly cleared her throat.

“Marshal Trahearne,” she whispered, projecting her voice with magic through the opening.  “I do hope I’m not interrupting your studies.”

There were muted shuffling noises, a muffled oath of surprise, books on books being moved.  “Give me a moment, Commander; I believe I’ve lost track of time again.  I can’t find – ”

“ _Treatise on a Sunken Land_?  You let me borrow it earlier,” Llumin said.  “I’ve come to return it.”  She paused as the noises continued.  “Are you certain I’m not – ?”

“You’re not interrupting, Commander, please do come in.”

She pulled aside the tent-flap and peeked in.  At first, the only thing she could see were books and tall candles; some of the flickering lights rested on dull and dented candleholders; others were melting into thick puddles of wax on ancient tomes protected by thin leather scraps.  Over the past few days, his desk had clearly gone from “sitting-spot” to “fortress of books.” 

Llumin set the borrowed tome aside on the only remaining corner of his desk.  “You know, Marshal, I do believe I’m experiencing what the humans call deja-vu.” 

His green-skinned face finally rose from the papery depths.  “If you’re thinking of what I’m thinking, to my recollection, you were the one who was booked in last time.”

Llumin’s brows furrowed in concern at the mess as she set aside a candle.  “Somehow I can’t see this being a terribly good setup.”

“I put down leather to protect the older ones, but your illusory flames would still be safer,” he agreed.  He descended back into the leatherbound hold.

She concentrated.  A blue, clear light floated above her palm.  To her delight, it held even as she moved her concentration towards moving books.  She knelt by the towers of scrolls, abandoned letters, and sketches.  “Some of these are ancient,” she whispered reverently.  “Are you certain I can move them?”

“I trust you with the lives of soldiers, Commander,” he said.  She could hear the smile in his voice as he turned towards another stack of books.  “My tomes are surely no less safe in your capable hands.”  He straightened and pulled one of the larger ones aside, creating a path and ushering her into the space that was cleared out.  “I apologize if it’s a bit late, but we never did get to discuss strategy over tea.”

She smiled.  “I think that circumstances were slightly beyond our means, but I appreciate the thought, nonetheless.”

“To be honest, after all the discussions that have happened recently, I’m quite sick of strategy. Would you mind if we just talked?”

“Not at all.”

“Please, pardon the delay.  Help yourself to the tea; the kettle is on the trivet on the desk, and there’s a cup next to it.”

She thanked him and glanced at his desk.  It was littered with letters from diplomats and his own hand-written notes.  Some had illustrations that were half-complete, showing cats tumbling behind potted ferns.  More finished works displayed the horrors of Orrian minions; Risen flesh rendered in sickly gray ink.  It was an unfinished portrait that caught her attention. 

“Is that me?”

The Marshal nearly choked on his tea.

“I apologize; I forgot to put that away – just another sketch,” he stammered.  He quickly set aside his cup, reached around her, and flipped it over; she didn’t understand why he was embarrassed. 

 “It’s lovely; there’s no reason to apologise!”  She half-turned and beamed up at him.  “You even got my freckle!” 

For a half-second, the Marshal seemed frozen in place; an indescribable look passed over his face as she looked up at him.  After a moment, he cleared his throat and stepped back.  Llumin suddenly felt very aware of the space he had once filled. 

She coughed lightly, took a simple earthen cup from next to the teakettle, and filled it.   “It was a clever way to use it in your update on Zhaitan’s generals.”

He gave a grim laugh.  “Adding ‘deceased’ seems a bit ironic, considering they’re undead, but I was more than happy to put Labwan’s name in the books.”  He self-consciously rubbed the back of his neck, paused, and took a long sip from his earthenware teacup.  “I put your portrait down as a reminder to trust your intuition,” he said.

“I’m a mesmer, Trahearne; who’s to say I’m not secretly playing some sort of mind game?” Llumin gave him a teasing smile and wiggled her fingers.

He smiled.  “It wouldn’t suit your personality; I’ve known you since before you left the Grove.  If there’s anyone I trust, Commander, it is you.”

The mesmer’s eyes widened; she decided to inspect the bottom of her teacup and ignore the sound of blood rushing to her ears.  “Oh.”

A weighty silence filled the air; neither of them seemed quite sure how to break it.  Llumin took a drink from her cup.

“You remembered?”

“Rose tea.”  Trahearne smiled.  “Unless I somehow forgot.”

“You didn’t.”   Over the course of their talk, they had managed to make the tent a habitable place again.  “Does… does what Myrie said make any difference, Marshal?”

“I’m not sure I follow, Commander.”  He took another drink from his cup and set it down on the desk. 

“My trustworthiness.  Who you knew in the Grove is surely different from who you know now.  Now you know that I am … not quite who I say I am.”

Trahearne was silent for a moment, chewing on his thoughts. Finally, he spoke.  “Regardless of the circumstances of how you came to be,” he said slowly, “whether you were born from the Dream of Dreams or from the hopes of two desperate humans, you are _you_.  Llumin of the Cycle of Dusk, Dreamer of a land freed from a dragon’s grasp, mesmer, and now Commander of the Pact.  My friend,” he said warmly.  “You are so much more than what you fear or who you fear to fail or please.  Enemies will try to break you, have tried to kill and destroy your honor and reputation.  I have lived long enough to tell you that they will do so again.”  He placed a hand on her shoulder.  “But do not lose hope.  If you can manage to make a Marshal of a scholar,” he said, “I think you can even kill a dragon.”

 “I – ”  She swallowed heavily.  “Thank you.” 

His smile was gentle.  “You will always have an ally in me, Llumin, whether we are near or far from the Grove.”  He reached a hand towards her face before he paused and pulled back.  “Tell me, Commander,” he said, not quite meeting her gaze, “did you like the book?”

She blinked.  “Yes; I thought it was well-done.  It was one of your first reference materials for your expeditions to Orr, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”  He hummed and turned from her towards the desk again.  His fingers sprawled over the softened leather cover as he picked it up and ran a hand over the dust-jacket.  “I would like you to keep this, Commander,” he said.  “A memento of sorts; to remember where both of us have come from.”

Llumin took a half-step back.  “Marshal, I couldn’t!  What if I – ?”

His knowing laugh warmed and irritated her.  “Llumin, you can spend all of your life wondering about the ‘what-ifs.’  Trust me.  Take the book.”  He pressed it into her arms.  “You’ve earned it.”

It suddenly seemed as though she was holding a small world.  She mumbled an awed “thank-you” and traced her hands over the worn binding. 

“How could I repay you?” she asked, eyes wide. 

“It’s a gift,” he said.  “You don’t.” 

He took a hesitant step towards her as she looked once more at the tome and pressed a quick, small kiss to her cheek. “Good night, Commander,” he murmured.  “We can resume talking strategy tomorrow.”

 

Llumin wasn't quite sure how she made it back to her tent.  She vaguely remembered walking out, eyes wide and glowing as brilliant as a torch in the night air with the book clutched tightly to her chest.  Her fingers traced the spot where she surely dreamed the legendary Marshal of the Pact, Firstborn Trahearne, had .....

She pulled her blanket up to her eyes and blushed furiously.  Whatever bets the asura and Nettle had made, she thought, trying to think sensibly above the giddy butterflies in her stomach, she would almost certainly never hear the end of it. 


	100. Arc 4, Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khimma and Klixx deal with the repercussions of betting with Nettle.

  Khimma and Klixx refused to look at Nettle as she walked by and held out a single hand towards them, reluctantly parting with their gold in front of Myrie’s disbelieving eyes. 

  “Don’t ask,” the guardian huffed.

  Klixx shook his head dramatically.  “Never make a bet with a plant.” 

  The thief ran a hand down her face.  “What are you talking about _now_?”

  Klixx sighed.  “I’m not sure why, but Khimma, Nettle, and I all made a bet to see if our local pining salads would finally break free from their fears and pour out their hearts to each other after the whole spy incident.  Unfortunately, both Khimma and I bet that it would happen later rather than sooner, and were thus on the losing end of that one…”

  Myrie gave him a look.  “Break free of their…?  Klixx, remind me to suggest _avoiding_ those cheesy romance novels I purloin on occasion.  Still – you make bets on others’ love lives?”

  “It gets boring in the camp sometimes!”  Khimma whined.  “We’re away from the Priory’s libraries, and SHU-TY’s been banned from the tent supplies for knotting the anchoring ropes!”

  “Regardless, does anyone know where the Marshal and Commander are?”

  “They’re with a strike force helping retrieve the krait orb that supposedly nullifies Zhaitan’s corruption.  If we get it, we won’t need to worry about our allies dying and becoming minions while in its range.”

  “They should have brought me,” Nettle fumed.  “I’m the most expert here on blood magic and haemomancy!  With my talents – ”

  “With all due respect, which is none,” Klixx said politely, “you don’t have the best track record with blood and murderous impulses.”

  “It’s entirely possible the Pact didn’t want the krait to get any ideas from you,” Khimma said sweetly.  “Besides,” she said, pressing a few buttons on her armored gauntlet, “if we’re going to get moving on that last forward camp to the south, we’d best head out while there’s still light.”

  Nettle sneered.  “Keep Llumin away from artillery, and I’m sure all will go just fine.”

  “Your concern is touching.”  Selana’s voice broke into the conversation; the three of them turned around to see the human noble towering ominously over them.  “Regardless, of course, of any proximity to explosives.”

  “So glad to have you join us,” Nettle beamed.  Her smile showed too many teeth to be friendly.  “Unfortunately, I cannot stay for long; Lord Radwing has called me to make use of my talents in sourcing out waypoint placements for forward positions in Orr.”

  A member of the Priory walked past Nettle and didn’t meet her gaze as he dropped a small satchel of coins into her outstretched hand.  Selana watched him leave through narrowed eyes. 

  “What was that?”

  “It appears my bet has spread a bit further than I had thought,” Nettle hummed.  She emptied the smaller pouch into the bag at her side.  “So far that’s half the camp that’s paid me for their loss.”  She slowly weighed her coin-purse in a hand and glanced up at Selana as if suddenly remembering that she was there.  “Oh, you didn’t hear?  Khimma and Klixx started a bet to see if the Commander or the Marshal would give any indication of their feelings for one another anytime soon.  Trahearne’s harder to read than Llumin, but I suspected that with enough nettling – Khimma, don’t you _dare_ make a comment on my name – that something would happen sooner rather than later.  Most of the camp, unfortunately, bet for later.” 

  Myrie’s skin prickled as the firestone over Selana’s forehead burst to a white-hot flame.  “How dare you!  That is their private issue to resolve; not some … _entertainment_ for you to feast your greedy boredom upon!”  The elementalist reached for her scepter and found it missing.  Her gaze whipped down to the thief.  “Give that back and let me properly teach her a lesson for her impudence!”

  “Easy there, Flameylocks!” Myrie held her hands up as she stepped between the necromancer and the elementalist.  “I don’t like or agree with it, either, but we do not need this kind of bickering before we go into enemy territory!” 

  The sylvari and the elementalist stared at each other for a tense moment; Adam rotated in the necromancer’s pale fingers.  To Myrie’s surprise, the sylvari was the first to step back. 

  “You know, I suppose that the thief is correct,” she said quietly.  “We can take our blows later if you’re so insistent, but we can have our victory at hand if we press on.”

  Selana’s stance was rigid as she accepted her staff back from a hesitant thief.  “An unusually-demure statement from you, Nettle, but in this situation, I will take it for an apology.”

  The sylvari shrugged.  “Take it for what you will.”  Her ears twitched.  “Ah, the triumphant heroes have returned.  A smaller party, it seems, but with the leaders and orb intact.”  She turned to smile down at Myrie.  “You may want to see what the Marshal wants to speak with you about.”

  “He hasn’t said anything – ”

Trahearne’s brisk steps carried him past the group.  “Miss Ward, I require your advice on an important manner.  Meet me as soon as possible.”

  The thief whirled around and blinked.  “Um.  Sure.”  She turned back to Nettle, eyes wide. “Okay, how did you know he was going to do that?”

  Nettle gave a vague gesture.  “Call it a hunch.  I’ve dulled my empathetic sensitivities over time, but my vision and insight aren’t horrible.  Besides,” she smiled, “who was the last person he spoke to about his precious Commander?”

 

Khimma and Klixx attempted to carefully sneak away while Selana’s attention was elsewhere.  At the edge of the camp, they heard her voice carried on the faintest of whispers.

  “Do not think I have forgotten your involvement in this, asura,” she said quietly.  “What you may believe to be a harmless prank may later harm both of them.  Do not do this again,” she said, “or I assure you, the repercussions will be dire.”

  “Noted!  Not happening again,” Klixx muttered quickly.  “Khimma and I will be in the Priory’s section of the camp helping tear-down if you need us.”


	101. Arc 4, Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrie comes to the horrifying realization that she is becoming the Pact's resident therapist.

Myrie wanted to knock on the door, but as it was made of canvas and thus unable to be knocked upon, she satisfied the need to announce herself with a polite clearing of her throat before she stepped in and saluted. 

  “Looks as though the mission was a success, sir,” she said.  “Congratulations.”

  He gave her a distracted smile as he piled a set of books into an oversized satchel.  “Thank you.  Without the orders’ cooperation and the help we received from the prisoners we freed along the way, it would have been impossible.”  He rolled up a series of maps and papers with various drawings and notes and put them in a leather tube.  “That is, however,” he said quietly, looking just past her, “not why I called you here.  Please, sit.”

 The thief sat down and glanced around the half-disassembled tent. “Are you sure you don’t want my help packing all this up?”

  He gave a good-humored smile.  “With all due respect, Miss Ward, Lord Radwing has informed me that you have a tendency towards collecting others’ belongings, even unintentionally.  I’d prefer to keep my things as visible as possible.”

 “Okay, that’s fair.”  She leaned back and rested her feet on one of the few clean corners of the desk.  “So, what do you need me here for?”

  He stared at her shoes until she removed them from his desk.  “Thank you.  The reason…” he coughed and looked determinedly at the stack of books he reached for, “the reason is a bit embarrassing.”  He gestured at her necklace.  “That was given to you by someone who cared very deeply for you, wasn’t it?  I can sense his presence on it.”

  Myrie felt her mouth dry.  “How…?”  She gave a halfhearted wave.  “Necromancer, right.  So, you wanted to ask about Quinn’s ring…?’

  “No.”  He swallowed, and the thief was reminded of a nervous schoolboy dodging a teacher’s prodding questions.  She couldn’t help herself after being so thrown off.

  “Well, don’t worry, Marshal,” she grinned. “I don’t bite.  Pretty sure that’s Nettle’s category.  Or the asura.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and sat heavily in his chair opposite of hers. 

“I wanted to ask about _him._ How…” he swallowed and looked nervously at her.  “How did he tell you he loved you?” 

  The question struck Myrie like a blow to the chest.  “I’m sorry?” 

  He blinked, shook his head, and stood at her reaction.  “This is foolishness.  I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have caused you such distress, Miss Ward, it was clearly unprofessional of me to ask about that; you may take your leave – ”

  “No!  No, I’m… I’m fine, Marshal.  It’s just…” She paused.  “You know, I really don’t think about it that much.  I didn’t think about it when he was alive, and it still hurts to think about it now that he’s dead.”  She chewed her lip and tapped her fingers against her thumb absently.   “He didn’t really say it, I suppose,” she sighed.  “”Quinn only really started to give signs that he liked me for something other than a friend later on in his life.”  She sat back and mulled.  “He was there even when we didn’t understand each other; even when he was the only one standing for me, I could always count on him having my back.  He was a good listener, a great ally for both battle and downtime.  Kind, but not a pushover; loyal…”  A single green eye squinted shut.  “But then again, something tells me that you’re not asking this for simple curiosity.  Is this about Llumin?”

She didn’t know when or how he had managed to write as much as he had without her noticing, but her question clearly threw him off.  He hurriedly corrected the bottle of ink before it tipped over and cleared his throat as his vibrant glow blushed in the dim light of the tent.  “Am I really so easy to read?”

  “Well,” Myrie said, leaning forward in her chair and entwining her fingers, “considering the state of the camp, I’d say so.”

  “State of the…?”  He shook his head.  “No matter, I’m sure.  I’m… I’m not familiar with social interactions.  Not really,” he said sadly. 

  The thief gave him a curious look.  “I would have thought that someone with your age and experience would have better insight into those sorts of things.”

  His laugh was humorless.  “Necromancy and my Orrian expeditions alienated me from among most of the Firstborn early on and earned me few friends among the Secondborn, either.  The Grove isn’t as much of a home to me as other Firstborn, most of whom saw me as a man on a fool’s errand.  So, no, social interactions weren’t part of my repertoire upon my returns, usually,” he said.  “But that’s another topic for a different day.  Returning to the subject at hand,” he said, and turned to put away another set of books into a satchel that looked nearly fit to burst, “that is part of the reason I have difficulty in keeping the few friends I have.”  He looked up, hesitated, and swallowed.  “The few friends I don’t want to lose,” he said quietly, “and who I fear I may have confused.”

  “Who and how did you confuse?”

  He sighed and sat heavily across from her, placing his face in his hands.  “I kissed her,” he said through his fingers.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  His gaze was hollow.  “I kissed Llumin as she left, and now I don’t know what to do.”

  An echo of realization pinged through Myrie’s memory.  “Was that when she left your tent that night last week?”

  If the Firstborn wasn’t pale before, he was now.  “You saw?”

  “I don’t think anyone thought poorly of it – hey, are you all right?”

He rummaged in a bag and pulled out a large, paper-wrapped bottle.  “I don’t think too many people know of Orr’s wines, but I think that today calls for a sample.”

  Myrie’s brows furrowed.  “Um… no disrespect, sir, but haven’t those been submerged and resurrected with the land? I’d think that they’d taste like – ”

  The cork’s loud _pop_ interrupted her sentence as he yanked it out and peered morosely into the bottle’s murky depths.  Myrie’s eyes stung.

  “Grenth’s teeth, is that alcohol or poison?”

  “Alcohol,” he said dully, upending it into a wooden cup.  He squinted at the blackish drink.  “Barely.”  He snapped it back and hunched over his desk.  “What do I do, Ward?  I acted on impulse.  I’ve never acted on impulse.  And now…” he waved his hands helplessly.  “I can’t stop thinking about her.  I want – I need – to cleanse Orr.  I know it now, but without her help and encouragement – ”

  “More like boot to the backside,” Myrie muttered.

  “Would I even be here without her?”  He shuddered and rested his forehead in his hands.  “I can’t let my feelings get in the way of my mission – of the Pact’s mission.  But this is the first time I’ve ever felt this way towards anyone.  Was I rash?”

  The human thief came to the realization that she was not getting paid enough for this, and decided to keep listening anyway as he poured and snapped back another questionable drink from Orr.  She sighed and leaned over his desk, palming a few trinkets. 

  “Okay, look, give that here; drinking away your problems won’t solve anything.”  She pried the bottle from his reluctant grasp.  “Now, let’s start from the beginning.  What happened?”

  With more hesitance than she had anticipated, Trahearne told her what had happened.  Myrie nodded, asking questions every now and again for clarification.  When he was done, he asked her again what her advice was and stared at her with a desperation that the human felt was only slightly exaggerated by the wine he had drunk.

  “You want my advice, sir?”  She sat back, closed her eyes, and gave him a benevolent smile.  “You’re being an idiot.”

  He sat back and blinked as if slapped.  “Pardon?”

  “You’re overthinking things!  Look, when you and Llumin and Selana all came down here from wherever-it-was before the fight on Claw Island, even Selana could tell that there was something between you two.”

  “She could?”

  “Yes!  And she hated it!”  The thief laughed.  “Oh, don’t take it personally; now that you know who and what she really is, you can’t blame her for being protective of her younger sister.  And so what if Selana’s a bit dismissive?  You’re not trying to impress _her_ , and she’s always been a stick-in-the-mud anyway.  My point is,” she said, spreading her hands, “if you love her, you can’t just hedge and dodge telling her forever.  And unless Selana’s wrong about what she’s seen, or if you’re trying to mislead Llumin – ”

  “I’m not.” 

The Marshal’s burning yellow-orange eyes fixed on hers, and Myrie felt a jolt of what she didn’t want to admit was cold fear jagging down her spine.  She cleared her throat. 

  “Well, then, tell her.”  She leaned forward again.  “You can’t use me as an in-between whenever you have a crisis about your feelings, Marshal, and if you feel as though they’re getting in the way of the mission, you have to figure this out sooner rather than later.  Either do something about it, or set boundaries and let it die.  Your choice.”  She stood and saluted.  “If I may?”

  He nodded mutely, resting his chin behind steepled fingers.  She paused at the tent’s entrance and sighed.

  “If you really, really want my advice,” she said quietly, “take it from someone who didn’t get to make that choice.  Take the leap.  You’ll regret losing that chance otherwise.”


	102. Arc 4, Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Augur's Grotto, secrets are revealed, and a final plan for invasion is put forward.

 

 

Llumin didn’t mind the rain or the sound of the cool sand scuffing and squeaking beneath her feet.  The Pact was on the move to the last camp before its invasion of Fort Trinity, and any change in scenery towards Orr was, despite any unpleasantness that may have been encountered, preferable.  She waved behind her at the caravan and helped point them in the right direction; the Order of Whispers was the one that had helped find the grotto, and Trahearne had promised to tell her some of its history after the rest of the scouting party had moved ahead.  There was a secretive happiness to him, she thought, an echo like someone planning a surprise, but with an electric undercurrent of nerves running through him like static.  A raindrop swelled overhead on a rocky overhand and splashed coldly onto her nose, causing her to sneeze in surprise.  Selana, who brought up the rear of the Order caravan, paused and peered at her in concern.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, quite fine,” the sylvari replied, blinking and rubbing her nose to shoo away the prickly feeling.  “And you?”

  The noblewoman crossed her arms and raised a hand at one of the agents’ inquisitive looks, who nodded and trudged out of sight.  “I’m as well as can be expected.  We’re finally on the edge of Orr, a single step before we go from gnawing at the Dragon’s territory to a long-awaited invasion.  This isn’t even all of our forces,” she continued with a grim smile, “and already I can tell you from the scouting parties that we’re poised to make a good headway.”

  “Trahearne’s insight into the land has proven itself irreplaceable,” Llumin agreed.

  “And with such commanders as you at the Pact’s head,” Selana said with a proud smile, “nobody should be surprised at our progress.”

  “Thank you, Selana.”  She smiled.  “I really can’t state enough how much your presence means to me.”

  The human’s smile dimmed.  “I only wish you got the chance to know Mom and Dad more, even if it had been as their ghost-forms.”

  “I may not have known them well or for very long,” Llumin said softly, bowing her head in respect, “but my heart still misses them.”

  The noble reached out and gently grasped her sister’s shoulder.  “We’ll meet them again in the Mists,” she said.  “They were proud of you even before you knew them.”  The noble’s ear twitched, and she turned a flame-colored head towards the grotto’s hidden entrance behind her.  “I think that’s the Marshal.  I’ll meet you inside.”  She gave her a pat on the arm and turned to walk into the cave’s inner sanctum.

 

  “Good to see you, Marshal.”  Llumin looked around after greeting him.  “Is that everyone?”

  “I think so,” he said.  He clasped his hands behind his back, stretching slightly to reach over Caladbolg as he walked inside.  “I, for one, am more than ready to finish being at the edges of our enemy’s land.”

  “As am I.” 

  There was a moment’s silence as they walked towards the sanctum’s entrance and paused.  “Did you know,” he asked, half-turning towards her, “that there’s something special about Augur’s Grotto?”

“I’m not surprised; you’ve been hinting at something for a while now,” she said, tilting her head towards him.  “What is it?”

  He took her hand and pointed at the glowing chips of crystal in the stone ceiling.  “This cave used to hold great significance to ancient Orrians.  I’m told star-crossed lovers used to meet here, believing that the fates they saw in the stars outside were mirrored on the crystal inside.” She could see his orchid-purple glow brighten and fade through his dark-green skin as he breathed.  His eyes were fixed on the shimmering stones above.   “According to my research, some of them believed that if they confessed underneath the stars inside, the gods would bless their relationship, and that they would be in love for eternity.”

  He released her hand after a long moment.  She absently ran her thumb over where he had touched.  “Is that so?” she whispered.

“That’s what the stories said.”  He cleared his throat. “You know, Commander, it’s possible that we… we could be star-crossed.”

  Her eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline.  “But that would mean that you would have to love me,” she blurted, “which is – ”

  “Obvious?”  He sighed, paused, and explained.  “The book.  The advice, the late-night talks – I kissed you, Llumin; did that mean nothing to you?”

  She blushed and couldn’t meet his gaze.  “Friends sometimes give each other kisses on the cheek,” she murmured.

  “They do, Llumin, sometimes, but I think that you knew how I felt.”

  She was quiet for a heartbeat.  When she spoke again, her voice was very quiet.  “I didn’t want to give myself false hope.”  In the glowing light of the caverns around them, her eyes burned like sky-colored flames.  “Contrary to what you might think, Trahearne, you do have other admirers.  What use would it have been for me to hope for something that may have never existed?” 

They had stopped walking and faced each other, their inner light and that from Caladbolg blending in a luminous pool of purple and gold. 

  “I never noticed anyone else, Llumin,” he said firmly; once more his hand had found hers, though this time it hesitated before it took its gentle hold.  “Unfortunate as it may be to anyone foolish enough to fall for me, I love only you.”

  Llumin was silent, breath caught in her throat before she returned her gaze to his.  “You do?”

  “For a very long time, I’m afraid.  I didn’t want to admit it.  I didn’t think… that I was worthy, really.”

  Her gaze did not waver from his, mouth slightly agape.  “Trahearne,” she said slowly, stunned.  “You absolute petal-head, did you ever think that I might have thought the same?”

  He drew back his hand as if wounded.  “That I was unworthy?”

  Llumin threw her hands skyward.  “No, you absolutely wonderful man; that _I_ was!  Look at you: Leading an army you never thought you were up to par, fighting a war you never wanted to fight – ”

  “Do you think I could have done this without you?  I was a man on the outskirts of society, an outcast; a fool among his people chasing a dream that no-one really believed could be real.  How could I match your bravery, your enthusiasm, your hope?  I had nearly lost it, and you helped me remember that there is more to my Wyld Hunt than just loneliness and a grim doom.”  He laughed and shook his head.  “Of course, I love you, Commander, inspiration, encourager, beautiful, kind-hearted.  How could I not?”

  She had forgotten how to breathe again.  “Oh.”

  He stepped back slowly and looked at the ground.  “If I was wrong, I apologize – ”

  “Trahearne.”  Llumin’s voice was shaking but resolute.  “If you had been paying any attention, you would have heard that I love you, too.”  

 Confusion, realization, and joy flooded over his face.  He was beautiful, she thought, when he smiled like that.  He stepped towards her and drew her to him, and there, in the glittering lights of the false stars above, his glow melded with hers, and he kissed her.  In the Orrian cave, with the murmurs of the camp inside and the hiss of the rain outside, she tasted kiwi and tea on his lips, and felt as though something in her chest finally fell into place.  She broke apart slowly and beamed up at him as they both fell into a fit of giggles. 

  “Someone will see!”  she finally said, and buried her face in his chest. 

  “Let them.”  Another kiss, gentle on her forehead.  She shook her head, lavender glowing through her skin.

  “We have a _mission_ , Marshal,” she said.  His hands ran down her arms as she stepped back.  “And I’m sure the troops are wondering where we are.”

  “I was certain I told them to wait for us.”  He pursed his lips, squinted, and sighed.  “Then again, I suppose I’ll have to catch my heart again and focus, hm?  We have unpleasant business to discuss deeper in that grotto.”  Another smile split his face.  “Even though I think I’d much rather stay in this tunnel with you and focus on nicer things.”

  “Well, it’s always better with friends by your side.”

  “And being in the presence of the one you love.”

  Her face flushed.  “And being in the presence of the one you love.”  She squeezed his hand and whispered conspiratorially. “Was the legend true?”

  His golden eyes crinkled.  “Of course.  We’re star-crossed now.”

  Her smile faltered, and she sighed.  “We’ll need that luck to defeat the dragon.”

  “And cleanse its land.”  He rubbed the back of his neck and gave a tired grimace. “Are you certain you don’t want to stay here for a while?”

  She drew herself up primly.  “A wise woman once said that there is a difference between what one wants to do and what one must do: That is duty.”

  He stared at her a moment longer.  “No-one said that.”

  She raised her chin at him.  “I did, just now.  And Selana told me before.  Come on, let’s talk strategy before they figure out how to get to Orr without us.”  She took a few steps and paused.  “I suppose,” she said, clearing her throat, “that we’ll still have to be professional about this, though I am glad to have it out in the open.”

  He frowned.  “You know, I’m not sure I want to remain professional,” he said.  His smile returned as he casually leaned on a stalagmite.  “I’d much rather kiss you, I think.”

 She could feel the same butterflies in her chest that he did.   “Marshal!”

   He sighed dramatically.  “But a wise woman did once tell me about duty, and for her,” he bowed and gestured towards the cave’s entrance, “I think I can oblige.”

 

 The set-up for the march was nearly complete.  Though the plot in the grotto had gone well, all within agreed that the Orrian ambush shortly after the Marshal and Commander’s arrival made discussions rather tense, and resolved to quickly shut down or cripple Zhaitan’s minion production sometime in the near future.  The Pact agreed to set out a few supply camps as bait for Zhaitain’s forces to draw some of them away from the main invasion force.  After that, a strike force would be set in and the orb would be set up, weakening the occupying forces, while the Pact invaders would rush at the fort from above and below the sea.  Charr submarines would provide the naval power they needed, while a combination of asuran and sylvari transports would provide the tanks required to give them time to wedge their way into the door.

  “Khimma and Klixx are still our resident experts on rewiring and using rogue magic,” Selana said, setting up two short pegs on the battlefield and sliding them through the massive gates of the model fort.  “If we can protect them and the other Priory arcanists, that will make our occupation that much easier.”

  “What about the camps on the side?”  Llumin pointed at the lumber mills just outside the fort.  “Are we really so willing to sacrifice our men for this?  There has to be another way.”

  “We’re not sacrificing them,” the Vigil representative snarled.  “Those Whispers louts have got fighting dirty down to a science.  We’ve got trapdoors by the main hubs that will shunt our troops off when they’re at the required point if the fighting gets too hairy.  With the magic safety keys we’ll have embedded into their armor, we’ll ensure that only our troops will be fired back into the safety of our force; the trapdoors will be locked otherwise.”

  “And if the Dragon alters its attack?”  Trahearne’s face was grim.

  He sat back and crossed his arms with a sigh.  “Well, we’re all tired of settling for scraps.  Even if it takes all we’ve got, we’re ready to pay that price.  It won’t be a sacrifice.  It’ll be an honor.”

  A Priory charr cast the map a nervous look.  “What’s our latest from Nettle?  Is she still with Gryphon scouting ahead for new waypoints?”

  Selana’s lips thinned.  “You don’t need a dowsing rod to tell we’re in the thick of the Dragon’s magic, soldier.”

  Traherane sighed, frowning.  “Believe me when I say that this will be a hive of activity we’re bursting into.  Everything must be planned very carefully.” 

  The soldier grimaced.  “If this fails…”

  “We won’t fail.”  Llumin’s voice was firm as she looked from one member of the table to another.  “That the Dragon sent that ambush here only confirmed what we’ve been suspecting for ages: It is not invincible, and it knows it.  Its ambushes cannot continue, though.  Are there any suggestions for figuring out how to halt its production line for minions?”

  “We could retrace where they come from; have Nettle or someone else track the Orrians to where the Dragon is raiding tombs for its soldiers.”

  “Too risky; we still need her abilities to settle further into Orr, and if she dies or is compromised, that’s a loss that will slow us down.”

  The table was quiet for a moment.  Trahearne finally spoke.

  “There are … other abominations the Dragon has made.  Terrible creatures; enormous eyes that let the Dragon see all they see.  If we can capture and kill one of them, we could reverse the flow of necromancy through it and see what it has.”

  “Use its spy for our own purposes,” Selana realized.  “But where would we get an eye from a dragon?”

  Trahearne straightened.  “Something tells me that our invasion will have the Dragon’s full attention.  If it sends an Eye, we’ll take it from there.  The airships are complete enough to allow for test flights; if we capture and review what the Eye has seen from there, the Dragon’s sight will be more difficult for it to track should something go wrong.  Once it reveals where its minions are made, we can send in forces to break them down and continue a more aggressive approach into Orr.”

  “A rough plan,” the Vigil muttered, “but for now, it’s all we’ve got.  We’ll rally our troops and begin mobilization immediately.”  He saluted.  “Until then, we’ll see you at Fort Trinity, Marshal.”


	103. Arc 4, Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrie meets with an old friend and is called to do an uncomfortable duty.

 “I’m just glad you got rid of that horrible squid hair,” Myrie commented, grinning up at the human noble.  “Glad to have it back to its sensible shortness again.”

  “As you’ve said before, Miss Ward.”  Gryphon Radwing rolled his eyes.  “Remind me to tax your letter’s delivery next time; your mother sent some tea and dumplings for you.”

  “Really?  She hasn’t made these since I was a kid!”  The thief eagerly tore into her package and beamed at the crinkled paper bag.  Even dried, the smell made her mouth water.  “Thank you, Gryphon.” 

  “Just stay safe, Myrie,” he said, and ruffled her hair.  “How’s your jewelry-making coming?”

  “We’re about to march on Trinity, and you’re schooling me on my crafting?”  She squinted an eye shut and smirked.  “I’m sure you saw the last earrings I sent to my mom.  How long are you going to be staying?”

“Not long.  Our scouting missions have proven promising so far; we’ll be taking some representatives from Rata Sum to begin mining the ambient magic for waypoints soon.  I wish I could stay, but …”

  “Yeah, I know.  Nettle.  She been holding up all right?”

  He grimaced.  “She’s been insisting on tasting or experimenting whenever she’s not dowsing.  I think she either doesn’t care or is purposefully trying to unnerve some of the newer recruits, but her studies have potential to help Trahearne in that whole Eye plan I caught wind about.  As long as our mission doesn’t wholly impede her research and as long as that seal holds, she’s on our side whether she likes it or not.”  The mesmer smiled as his gaze flicked up behind her shoulder.  “Speaking of our Marshal, it looks like he wants to talk to you.”

  The thief turned around and felt the same prickling of nerves that she had with the Seraph back home.  “Again?”  Her brow furrowed.  “I don’t know what he’d want at this point, unless he finally noticed his missing teacups.  See you later?”

  “Gods willing,” he said.  “And give them back, Myrie, even if he’ll only notice them when he’s finished packing that library of his.”

    Her face scrunched at him.  “Spoilsport.”

  “Go,” he laughed.  “We’ll meet again when the fort’s established!”

 

  “You want us to _what_ now?”

  “I don’t like the plan any more than you do, Miss Ward, but for now, it’s one of the best chances we’ve got.  You’re the quickest thief I’ve ever seen, and we’ll need your skills when the fighting gets thick.”

  “My skills aren’t meant for heavy combat, Marshal,” she said.  Her fingers tapped rapidly against each other as she paced.  “I’m a runner – a distance-fighter, a single-person smackdown in a small package.”  She shoved a thumb over her shoulder as a brawny, towering norn belted out orders and helped load armfuls of weaponry onto a dolyak’s back.  “See that? That is what you’re looking for in a battle, not me!”

  “I know that you’re not as strong as others, Miss Ward, but contrary to what you may think, that is exactly what this mission needs.  As much as I would hate to admit it, your intuition’s better than others might notice, and if you get the sense that the camps are in danger or see something before anyone else does, the Pact will need you to send word and get people running.”

  “They might not want to run, Marshal.  These people are ready to fight; have been since Labwan’s deception.”

  “And this battle will give them that chance.  Myrie Ward, if these camps go down, you are one of the few people I trust can get where you need to go to direct people to the fort.”

  “And if you don’t have it cleared out in time?”

  His eyes burned.  “We will.”

  Her fist clenched around the chain at her neck; for a long while, she was silent.  “You want me to figure out how to decide whether to keep people in battle or to send them to retreat against an enemy that could wipe us all out.  That sounds like leading to me.  I don’t lead, Marshal,” she said hoarsely.  Her vision blurred.  “I don’t.”

  “I didn’t, either,” he said quietly.  “But we need you.  The Pact needs you.”  He turned as someone called his name.  “Myrie, if you’re adamant about this, we’ll try to find someone else to do it, but you’re our best candidate.”  He bowed hesitantly and walked away.

 

 Myrie took a deep breath and swallowed thickly.  She shook her head feverishly, muttering a series of prayers and curses before she punched her thigh and stood.  “All right.”

  He paused and turned back, his face holding a question.

  “I’ll do it, Marshal.”  She saluted and tried to steady her shaking hands.  “The Pact can count on me for this mission.”

  He smiled, nodded, and walked to another camp.   “Thank you, Miss Ward.  You won’t be alone,” he called, and continued on.

 Myrie watched him go and slumped onto a crate as her legs went numb.  “Bait,” she murmured, and ran her clammy hands down her face.  “I’m going to be Dhumm-marked bait…”


	104. Arc 4, Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Fort Trinity.

 The damp smells of the waterlogged forest and the nearby rotting seaweed reminded Myrie of the lakes she and her parents used to visit early in her childhood.  They weren’t entirely unhappy, but now all she could think of with the chill in the air was her father’s blank stare and her mother’s gentle, coaxing pleas as he stared unseeing at the stormy gray waters, hoping that maybe this treatment, this trip, this medicine would help him return from the battles in his mind.  Sometimes, as with any other day back at home, he seemed to stir, to remember, to smile gently at Myrie and his wife and return to the ghost of the man he had once been.  Most days, though, his lips still moved with whispered battle-cries, glassy eyes darting from one unseen crystalline foe to another as his knuckles shone white beneath his tanned-parchment skin.

  The thief shook her head and returned to the present, shooing the visions of the stormy lake and the rickety chairs.  That was another time, almost another life.  Now she, _she_ , stood alongside others of different races in this Pact that held one more impossible hope: To retake a fort from a dragon and charge headfirst into Orr.  Would this be just one more failed attempt?  She looked around her and thumbed the safeties on her pistols as the other Pact members, mostly Vigil and Whispers, milled about the lumber camp and barked orders to each other, discreetly testing their trap-doors, carrying supplies about, preparing for the enemy they hoped would leave at least some of them alive.  It would have been easy to dismiss the current of grim hope that underscored their motions, but the thief could see it in every nod, every vicious scrape of the sharpening stones against blades that hungered for victory as much as their users for revenge.  The Pact was tired of being pushed back; now, it was their turn to move ahead. 

 

  It wasn’t night when the first flares went up.  Myrie saw the eastern camps across the thin woods send their signals just after dusk; the distant sounds of battle and of a single, nasally trumpet blare gave all the warning they needed.  From on her parapet, the thief felt little more than a spectator.  The camps had been a splendid diversion.  With enough firepower concentrated at the edges, the Dragon’s forces had bled some of its defending troops from the fort to the sides in an attempt to squash what had appeared to be little more than an overeager nettling at its stronghold.  After a painful, eternal few minutes, Myrie licked her lips and returned her gaze to the camp below her and saw the Dragon’s scouts rustling silently through the underbrush. 

  “Archers!” 

  The command left her lips mere seconds before the Pact’s weaponsmasters unleashed their single storm of deadly hail against the Dragon’s first waves.  The element of surprise was no longer there; the Dragon knew of their presence, and the surrounding woods burst with undead.  Too quickly, other Orrian horrors lunged over their slain brethren, launching off once-gurgling allies to lunge with bared claws and fangs at the Pact’s defenders.  From above, Myrie’s body sang with tension; more than anything, she wished to join them, fall below alongside the men she had been trusted to defend, hold the line against an enemy that surrounded them like the rising tides and pushed them towards the center of their camps. 

  _Give them time,_ the command rang in her ears.  She strained her eyes for a precious moment towards the fort, where the din of battle nearly drowned out the humming thrum of the Pact’s newest inventions as they descended like nearly-forgotten clouds from the sky: The airships.

 

“Are you sure this is going to work?”  Khimma rarely looked fearful or uncertain, and Klixx felt a lurch in his stomach as the pink-eyed asura turned her gaze towards him.

  “You’re the one who put the thought forward, not me,” he shouted, barely making himself heard over the engines’ roar.  “Careful with that!”

  Khimma’s fingers clutched onto the krait orb as best as they could, but turbulence sent the floor reeling, and only Klixx’s quick thinking and conjured winds kept both his krewemate and the orb from sailing too early from the sky.  SHU-TY chirped in concern and braced the blue-haired asura’s knee as she regained her footing. 

  “I wish I knew what was going on out there,” she said.  She hefted the orb to another arm and held it carefully. 

  “I’ll ask.”  Klixx raised a gloved hand and banged it on the hull of the airship’s drop-port.  “Captain, what’s the field like out there?”

  “First Mate Finbar speaking.  Too early to tell anything yet,” came the barked reply.  The norn’s voice was a tinny bellow by the earpiece.  “Just stand tight and keep ahold of that orb until we’re ready to drop you in!”

  “Just give us an update!  We’ve been in here for hours!”

There was a grumble, a series of arguments on the other side, and the first mate was shoved aside by the other end as a smoky growl came through the speakers. 

“Weaponeer Khadr Shadowstalker speaking, mice.  These ships are a testament to all our races’ ingenuity working together for good, and I’ll not have you banging on them like some glitchy golemite with a wrench.  The outer camps are beginning to fall; one of them’s signaled the retreat about ten minutes past, but there are still a lot of defending forces in the fort.  That dragon’s smarter than we give it credit, or it’s being overly-cautious.  We’ve not seen anything major yet, but…” 

A roar cut through the charr’s speech; an emergency klaxon began to blare. 

  “Burn me, they’ve got giants,” she swore.  “Good news mice,” she said, and Klixx could imagine a sharp-toothed smile curving around her maw, “you’re getting out early.”

  “Early?  But that must mean something went wrong!”  Khimma brought up her golem’s interface as she began tapping hurried commands into it.  “What’s the bad news?”

  The airship’s primary port opened; through the glass paneling, the asura could see swarms of undead streaming from the fort’s main courtyard towards the invading forces.

  “It’s not as empty as you’d like it.  Strap in, mice; this mission’s now hinging on you!”

 

  “Fall back!  Fall back and join with the Commander!”  Myrie’s throat was raw from screaming commands at troops who took too long to realize that the trees on the horizon weren’t trees, that their comrades were turning even as their breath was being ripped from their lungs.  The horizon moved and bored down on them with the same cold impassiveness of the grave as their rotten throats bellowed cries that were felt as much as heard and the ground itself was torn and hurtled at them.  The Risen giants were worse than catapaults, turning their single-eyed gazes towards the stabbing, nettling ants at their feet and pasting them beneath feet the size of dolyak carts.  A low whupping thrum cast Myrie’s attention to the skies above the fort; she raised a hand and squinted as a hatch in the bottom of the _Ascending Dawn_ opened up and two squareish dots launched from its bay into the courtyard.  Her brows furrowed.

  “Too early,” she muttered.  The signal flare from the fort’s interior hadn’t gone off; the invading amphibian forces hadn’t cleared it out enough.  “They’re too early,” she shouted as she rejoined the main prong at the gate’s assault. 

  Llumin whirled, eyes wide as she turned from casting a bolt of chaotic energies into the mind of a distant Orrian.  “What?”

  “They’re heading in too early, Llumin; if we can’t pull them back or really make a rush for it, the odds aren’t in our favor!  We can’t afford to lose them!”

  “They’ve already dropped; there’s nothing we can do but push on!”  Sylfia pointed out, roaring as she arced her hammer’s deadly weight through the skull of an undead asura. 

  Llumin blinked, took a quick breath, and shook her head.  “I’ll go in.”

  “What?”

  “Guard my body; Gryphon taught me this; I’m sending my consciousness forward.  Keep moving the troops ahead!”

  “Llumin, wait!”

  The sylvari already had withdrawn, slumping backwards as violet mist rolled from her nose and mouth.  A green arm steadied her.

  “Go; I’ll protect her,” the Marshal ordered.  His eyes were fixed on the fort; Llumin’s ghostly form stepped nimbly through and around the battle.  “We can do this.”

 

  “We’re too close!”  Klixx furiously smashed commands into his hazmat suit’s golem interface, sweat rolling up his brow as his stomach and the ground rose dangerously high.  “The sea forces are only just on the artillery!”

  “We’ll have to take what we’ve got!”  Khimma’s face was pressed against the pilot’s window as she carefully adjusted her suit’s trajectory like a technological meteor from the sky.  “Brace for impact!”

  Klixx squeezed his eyes shut as his teeth shuddered and Orrian soil fountained around his suit.  “Genius One reporting in, landing clear!”

  Another bass boomed next to him; Khimma’s suit whirred as it pulled its blocky feet from the sandy ground. 

  “Genius Two, all clear!  Objective in sight!”

  A small divot in the ground, like a cannonball, rocketed next to her feet. 

  “SHU-TY, this is no place for your shenanigans!” Khimma panicked.  “Oh, fine, go on!  Go ahead and clear out what you can find ahead!”

  Klixx didn’t have time to shake his head at the tiny golem’s stubbornness; the arcanodispersion tower was ahead, and he already was running through the schematics in his mind as he had done a thousand times before.  His hands twitched in memory of the magitech training device he had used in the past; of course, the practice run was a bit different.  Now he would be running up an actual battlefield with enemies around him and allies firing over his ears.

  “Charge!”  He strapped in and bared his sharklike teeth as the occupying forces slowly turned in confusion towards his and Khimma’s intrusion.  Another command sent the upper body of his suit whirling around in a helicopter of destroying metal and technology, severing torsos and limbs from their rotten holds as he marched towards the tower.  Khimma plodded ahead, golem leaving heavy footfalls in the sandy ground as she clambered over the shored walls.  All things considered, the fort had held up well.

  “Glitch!”  She skidded to a halt as the tower came in view; a small defensive force of Orrian casters and bloated, walking corpse-bombs huddled around it.  “They must’ve realized what we’re in for,” she muttered.  “We’ve got to keep pushing on, though, we can’t – !”

  The Orrians gave a surprisingly-uniform chorus of confused grunts and howls, and the front line of defenders toppled and exploded in grisly chunks of gore and chum.  SHU-TY whistled happily and waved back at Khimma.

  “That’s my golem!”

 Klixx winced at her cheer.  “Yes, but come on; let’s go, there are still more ahead!”

  “Look out behind you!”

  He barely caught a glimpse of a slender lavender form that flitted around them, immaterial sword drawn as she drove its blade through a silent, Risen krait that had flanked them.  His eyes bulged.

  “Commander?”

  “In the flesh, so to speak!  I need you to keep moving on and get that orb installed!  As soon as it’s in, come by the gates and open them!  My phantasm hasn’t got any real force, and I won’t be able to keep it for long.  Once the main body of our troops is in, close it, and we’ll force the Orrians out!”

  The chaos of the outside battle echoed in their ears, and the sylvari’s phantasmal form flickered.  “May want to hurry,” the Commander muttered.  “The giants on the outside are pinning us against the walls.”

   “We’re on it!” 

  The mesmer’s ghostly form smiled.  She raised her pistol and charged towards the tower alongside them.  “Keep moving; I’ll distract them while you go ahead!”

 

Were his fingers always this fumbling?  Klixx cast a worried look at his krewemate as she grimaced and shifted in her pilot-bay, commanding her suit to charge ahead.  Behind them, the Pact’s seaward forces pushed further in as Zhaitan’s mass began to slowly turn towards them.  It might not know the reason for their drop-in, the asura thought, but he knew that it was too cunning to let easy prey and their tantalizing artifact reach their destination.

  “Khimma, how are you holding up?”

 The guardian’s eye twitched.  She gave a raw roar of fury as she ejected from her golem; the elementalist watched in dazed awe and horror as she hefted the krait orb like a two-handed weight and cracked it against the jaws of a grasping Orrian farmer before she landed heavily on the ground.  She stomped once, heavily, on its back, took up another running pace, and started to jog towards the old tower.  “Just get over here and help me install this thing!”

  A series of short beeps alerted Klixx to the hazmat suit’s automatic recall/delay timer.  “Genius One ejecting!” he shouted, and launched from his pod, landing alongside her.  His suit shuddered emptily behind him before it sparked and whirled, collapsing into a controlled subrupture portal for later use.  “Think we can stand the thirty seconds of exposure?”  He whirled his wooden staff once, winds already spiraling around their legs. 

  She gave a snort.  “Thirty seconds of exposure is nothing.  It’s the two minutes of defending _you_ as you rewire this thing into that old tower.”

  “Eh, you’ve got my back.”

 “Somebody has to.”

 

They would have had a harder time scrabbling and clawing their way to the tower if it wasn’t for SHU-TY’s unfettered chaos and Llumin’s precise strikes; she had stepped back to give a few more commands to the arriving reinforcements before recalling her consciousness to her body, shattering the projection in a fluttering cloud of mesmeric butterflies.  Sweat dribbled into Klixx’s golden eyes, and he tasted blood as he bit down on his tongue.  Another spark in the air snapped its electric teeth into his thumbs, and he swore and moved his hands around the krait orb again.

  “Who designed this technodispersion circuitry?” he snarled, ear flinching at the bone-crunching sound of Khimma’s hammer as it repelled another Orrian from the raised tower platform.

  “We did, you bookah!  Look for the ‘akt’ letter underneath the ‘quib’ symbol!”

  “Why didn’t we write it in Krytan again?!”

  “Because we were feeling stupid and wanted to gloat!”

  His nostrils flared.  “Khimma, you and I both know that of all the things we’ve ever been, _stupid_ has never been part of our descriptive dictionary!”  His eyes landed on the curving asuran letters, and their perfect, mathematical symmetry immediately reminded him of what he needed to do.  “Never mind that, we’re geniuses!” He wrenched open the old tower’s panel and grabbed a snarl of ancient wiring.  Once it had been used by sailors for a landbound beacon, signaling to camps further north of the sunken land.  It found new purpose in the blending of magics under Klixx’s skilled hands, and he shouted a warning and covered his ears as he slammed the external lid back over it and rotated the firing spark.

 

  Outside the occupied fort, the flare from the krait orb launched, blue and hopeful like a calming sky over a gray storm; its haze settled over the invaders and invigorated them, and allies who were slain no longer rose under the Dragon’s corrupting will.  Yet there was no time for cheers. 

  “Khimma, Klixx, open the doors!  We’ll get massacred unless we can get in there!”

  Llumin’s voice had grown hoarse; the Orrian giants already were picking up and throwing soldiers aside like children with horrible tantrums, or crushing them underfoot as if they were castles on a beach of sand.

  “The airships can’t fire unless we’re all in the fort,” she whispered.  “I have to go back in!”

  “Hold up, Commnander,” Myrie said, wiping grit and blood from her face with the back of her hand.  “You’ve done enough breaking and entering for once.  Send in the thief where she’s needed.”

  “Warmaster Ward, I cannot give that order!”

  “Thanks!”   The thief saluted and bent to grab an arrow, already concentrating on visualizing where she wanted to be and ignoring Llumin’s protests as she ran towards the gate.  “Kormir, I know others’ve said you blessed me,” she muttered, rolling away from an Orrian’s heavy hammer and squinting an eye shut against the horizon, “so you’d best forgive the pun and make this shot true…”

 

  Khimma and Klixx grunted and heaved against the door’s rusted pulleys to little avail.  Even SHU-TY’s valiant efforts only barely made them move. 

  “We’ve got to have someone else over on the other one!”  Khimma shouted.

  “I know that, but we’re the only ones by here!  The reinforcements can’t make it in yet!”

They jumped with a screech as a whirl of shadows dissipated, leaving a blinking, swaying human in their midst. 

  “You need help?  You’ve got help.”

  “Myrie!  We’d love to dwell on how you made that shot – ”

  “Well, don’t!  On my mark, heave!  One, two…!”

  The asura heaved, and Myrie gave a mighty kick at the gears, landing on her backside, dislodging a wedged pipe, and sending the gates groaning, slowly, surely upward.  The Pact gave a scattered cheer as the towering iron rose.

  “Everyone in!” she shouted.  “Everyone in before they shell the place!”

    Khimma turned to her, eyes wide.  “Shell?”

  “Only way we can clear the fort from the Dragon’s forces.  We’ve got to shell those outside.”

  “But the Commander – the Marshal – the rest of the _Pact!”_

  Dissonant music cut through the din of battle; portals opened just within the gates, flashing with vibrant magic as platoons of troops and soldiers marched and dragged their weary bodies through.

  “That’s all we can take!”  A familiar, red-haired mesmer waved his hand once.  “We can’t afford to keep them open!  The portals are closing!”

  The giants outside crouched and roared, further panicking those who were running.  Yet some soldiers turned and stood, weapons drawn and teeth bared.

  “Go on, Commander – close the gate!  We’ll hold them off!”

  “If you stay out there, you’ll be destroyed with them!”

  “We know that!”  A scarred human turned his head towards the gate and gave a grim smile.  “This was a sacrifice we were willing to make.  It was an honor to serve.” 

  The Orrians inside had already been driven back; the forces from the woods surged towards them like the ocean tides.  Gryphon Radwing’s lips thinned as he pressed a communications device on his wrist.

  “Shadowstalker, I know we’ve got troops outside, but they’re holding the line.  Signal the airships; raze the woods.”

  The soldiers’ salutes were the last the Pact saw of their sacrificial brethren as the heavy gates of Fort Trinity descended once with a thundering boom like the fist of a vengeful god.

 

On high, the charr engineer shook her head once.  She reached forward and launched a flare.  Outside the curving glass windows, two other ships hidden in the clouds sent off their own.  Her lips curved over sharp fangs as she flipped open the lid to the artillery launch.

  “This is for the Pact, Orrian scum.” 

 

Myrie had seen fireworks once; they were loud and bright and beautiful, awing all who saw them.

  These were no fireworks.

She had failed to notice the other airships in the sky; there were at least three of them she saw, illuminated once briefly as they sent off their deadly cargo and pummeled the ground in an all-encompassing, all-destroying hail of fire.  The roar was louder than thunder, louder than thought, and even with the tall, thick walls of the fort rising into the air, she had to turn away as the flashing lights from above illuminated the sky.  Vitrified sand and burned flesh and ozone seared her nose, and the chaos around her nearly dazed her as the once-chaotic din of battle was replaced by unending, merciless thunder.  She numbly moved alongside the Pact, switching to her daggers and carving holes through any Orrians that still screamed silently at her face. 

  Around her, troops moved with an almost-divine confidence, hearts soaring and aims true as the Orrians no longer drew allies from those they killed.  The dead remained at rest, and the Pact finally forced the Dragon’s forces from the fort.  For the first time in her military career, Myrie watched with disbelieving eyes and that strange fluttering of hope as the Orrians slowly turned and fled back into the sea.


	105. Arc 4, Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan to further create roads into Orr and weaken the Dragon is proposed.

That the airships and submarines had been a rousing success was undeniable.  Despite heavy losses, the Dragon found its forces shattered and unable to take back what the Pact’s reduced forces had stubbornly taken from it.  With the krait orb’s magic dispersed throughout the forces’ inroads, Myrie watched and listened and helped fight with a growing measure of disbelief and hope as the Pact, under the leadership of its Marshal and its commanders, slowly but surely began to force pockets of occupation into the Dragon’s land.  The only problems, the leaders had agreed, involved the Dragon’s minion production and the sources of its magic.  In order for Zhaitan to fall, it was agreed, the Dragon’s soldiers and food would have to be reduced, if not cut off completely. 

 

  Commander Gryphon Radwing watched as Llumin turned at the sound of the Marshal’s voice and saw her both flush and compose herself as she walked over at his request to help him at the airship, where one of the Dragon’s Eyes had been taken from the battlefield.

  “What are they doing up there?”  Nettle tilted her head as she watched the ship disembark and float lazily away from the dock.  As with most things, the structure had been hurriedly-built and well-enforced after the initial construction, yet none below would have been able to tell it had they not been there to witness it.

  “They’ve captured an Eye,” Gryphon crossed his arms.  “According to our research – ”

  “ _My_ research.”

  “It is the _Pact’s_ work,” he said firmly, “which is based on Professor Gorr’s claims. The suggestion has been made that Dragon eats and sees with external minions, which somehow feed into the Dragon’s own physical and magical reserves.”

  “I assure you, there was confirmation of his theories in the past,” the sylvari said, cutting her eyes at the mesmer.  “If people would actually listen to those claiming the Arcane Eye’s interference in the suppression of this information – ”

  “From what?  Other spies and informants?  That just becomes another information war, and I suspect that Rata Sum would be more likely to believe their own word.  I digress.  Llumin and Trahearne are going to attempt to re-enervate – not quite reanimate – the Eye of Zhaitan to see what the Dragon saw with it before it was captured and killed.”

  “Well, that’s a stupid idea.  Don’t they know that it’s entirely possible that the plan could backfire?”

  The mesmer uncrossed his arms and looked down at her.  “A great many things could backfire, Agent Viridia, but do explain.  Is this another of Adam’s ideas?”

  “You mock his inisghts yet have always benefitted from them, Lord Radwing.  I’m sure you’re more than aware and willing to point out Trahearne’s superiority in necromancy to my own, as is anyone and everyone who’s ever heard the Pale Mother’s praises of her Firstborn son.  I do not distrust his necromancy.  It is Llumin’s blossoming talents with her magic and the stress on these new devices of our dear asuran professor which concern me.  If all goes wrong, it is entirely possible that, for even the briefest of seconds, the Dragon could use the re-animated – oh, my apologies, _re-enervated_ – Eye in order to see back where it currently is.”

  “An unfortunate theory,” the mesmer sighed, “but not unthought-of.  The Marshal and Professor Gorr both agreed to conduct the test elsewhere in case this happens.”

  “And should something happen in the air?  What if they are attacked, hm?”  Her green eyes gleamed unpleasantly in the flickering torch-light around them that spattered and wove in the rainy night air.  “What if they die?”

  “I doubt it will happen, Agent,” he said coolly.  “Let’s speak of other topics for now.”

  The sylvari grit her teeth as the mark on her neck itched.  “As you wish.”  She turned towards him and opened her arms dramatically.  “I know that you’ve not called me here for my stunning personalities or the ways in which we work so well together, Lightbringer; tell me, what is our task for today?  Has the Master of Whispers given me a new target?  A new ‘black box’ to kill?”

  “For as long as our duties have us in Orr, I doubt there will be many ‘black box’ kills, Agent.”  The mesmer spoke silently, voice echoing in her mind.  The sylvari’s eyes widened.

  “Ah, I see how it is.  Don’t want the other Orders knowing the Whispers carry out assassinations, hm?  Do they know its little secret, that I am your most effective weapon for terror and influence?  Oh, no, can’t have that.”  Her thoughts dripped with as much sarcasm as her placid face concealed.  “Whatever would the banner of justice and Tyria’s well-being think?”

  “The Marshal knows.  Commander Llumin knows.  The Knights of Gryphon know, and have all done their part to ensure that, for matters of international security, your usage remains a secret.  Need I remind you,” he continued, “that it is for your own well-being, as well?  If your location or position were in any way compromised – ”

  “Death, yes, on myself, and dishonor on the Order of Whispers as has not been seen for ages. I am fully aware of the price of my ‘freedom’,” she spat.  “Though I have heard the most interesting rumors about a contact from our dear Marshal’s past – a largos, was it?”

  Gryphon’s eyebrow rose a fraction beyond what could be considered above suspect for the façade he gave.  “I’m impressed you even know what they are.”

  She shrugged, disguising it as a stretch.  “There was one stalking some Valiants in Brisban Wildlands.  You know their kind – death sometimes is preferable to the dishonor of a failed kill or contract.”

  “You assassinated the assassin.”

  “I had to draw him out first; they’re surprisingly stealthy.  You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve got one or two of those fin-backs after my neck.  I did rather enjoy dismembering his corpse; they’re quite elegantly-designed.”  She blinked, paused.  “Wouldn’t it be terribly awkward if the Marshal’s largos contact has been contracted to kill me?”

  “Most people wouldn’t smile at the idea.”

  “He was weak for his kind.  Going after green Valiants was a lower-task job.  It’s really laughable that he thought he could go against me, even at that stage of my life.”  Her smile faltered.  “People didn’t mind what I did back then, not all of them.  I tried to balance it a bit.”

  “You committed murder, Nettle, and regardless of who it was, it was still not as noble as you would have thought.”

  “And the Order of Whispers is suddenly more noble than one woman advancing science and removing from the world some of its own miscreants?”

  He ran a hand down his face.  “No matter how many times you tell yourself or others, Nettle, you know you weren’t as true to your ‘code’ as you’d pretend.  You killed innocent and guilty alike and tried to cover it up with vigilanteeism to excuse your thirst for blood.”

  The wistful look on her face melted as her eyes narrowed and her lips twisted.  “Always good at looking behind the glass, Lord Radwing, but why spoil my story again if there is no-one to hear it?”   She followed him as he turned to walk away.

  “Because people are always listening, Nettle,” he said quietly.  “And you of all people know how to play a crowd.”

 

The news of the battle that the Marshal and Commander had incurred while on the airship shook some.  The damage was minimal, but there was no doubt now that the Dragon knew of and would likely prepare more flight-capable minions to counteract the Pact’s airships.  The largest one, Nettle had heard, was still under wraps; covered in tarps and surrounded by bustling workers like ants around a corpse.  Instead of tearing, though, those little insects hammered and swung and cursed and added to it, carefully filling the shimmering sacs of air that would soon make up the lift of the enormous machine.

  “Aside from knowing that the Dragon saw you, what did you find?”  Nettle tilted her head at Llumin as she passed.  She could sense the Commander stiffen and saw her lips thin as she paused and turned to look at her. 

  “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell you,” she muttered.  She crossed her arms.  “Professor Gorr’s research has now been inexorably proven; we saw both how the Dragon is storing, collecting, and consuming artefacts, and where it is making its minions.  In order to get a mapped location on where the Dragon’s Mouth is – ”

  “I’d assume it’d be in its head.”

  “Most things about this Dragon are still largely conjecture, need I remind you,” Llumin said, eye twitching, “and its eyes are certainly not all affixed in its skull.”

  Nettle gave an innocent smile.  “All the more reason to dislike it, I suppose.”

  Llumin inhaled slowly before continuing. “As I was saying, we need to bait the Mouth of the Dragon with a suitably-potent magical artefact.”

  “And a sealed Orrian temple to a deposed human god would likely hold said bait.”

  “ _Likely_ isn’t going to be good enough, though; we need to send in someone who can sense it before we send it off, and who can track it from far away.”

  The necromancer’s pale lips twitched into a mirthless smile.  “And you once again have need for me.”

  Llumin turned to walk back towards the fort’s main offices, where the Marshal would often speak of strategy with the Order respresentatives on busy days and plan for future missions on quieter ones.  “Trahearne is of the opinion that without his informant, you would likely get lost there; the largos in the area have attempted to breach it before with only partial success.  He’s assigned the recovery mission to you and Gryphon; you’ll be joining largos representative Sayah al’Rajeed to keep this item, whatever it is, from falling into the Dragon’s teeth.”

  “Just us three?  Are you certain that sending us in to where it’s most strong won’t be a death sentence?”

  “Any larger force, and it would spook.  You, Gryphon, and Sayah are more than capable of recovering, baiting, and following the Dragon’s Mouth when you’ve returned to safety.”

  “And were, exactly, would we be storing this artefact?”  Nettle’s brisk strides easily allowed her to keep pace with the mesmer.  Llumin’s steps faltered.

  “We can’t keep you nearby with such a potent thing in your possession,” she muttered, casting her gaze sideways.  “You’ll need to be in the field for a few days; let it catch wind of where you are.”  She shook her head, voice firm again.  “When it does, Gryphon will send up a signal, and we’ll have some of our charr transports provide firepower to raid the Mouth and keep it from feeding the Dragon again.”

  Nettle’s eyes narrowed.  “Let me at least be certain: You’re sending Gryphon and I into a mission which will leave us with minimal communication between us and the Pact, after which you will be leaving us stranded with a beacon that is designed to catch the Dragon’s attention.  When said attention has been caught, we are to … _wait it out_ until backup arrives?  Tell me this is at least one of, if not _the_ main Mouth for this lizard, otherwise I may think that you’re _trying_ to get us killed!”

  “Do you doubt yourself, Nettle?”  Llumin turned and looked down at her, blue eyes glowing in the light of the setting Orrian sun.  The necromancer’s lips peeled back in a snarl.

  “Never.”  Adam rotated in her pale hand.  “I may, however, question the authority and intellect of those who have been designated as my _superiors.”_

  The mesmer was silent, gaze scouring over the necromancer’s own cold, furious countenance.  “You are the Smiling Death,” she said finally.  “You hid among the brawlers and the lecherous spies of Lion’s Arch for years before you were caught.  Don’t think of it as a Dragon,” she said.  “Think of it as another challenge to be killed.”

  “I am still uncertain as to whether it is _possible_ to kill it,” Nettle spat.  “Your prose will not work on me.  And what of you?  Will you and the Marshal sit back and discuss who to let die, or are you working towards another mission of your own?”  Her teeth shone in the dull, sputtering flame of an overhead torch.  “Or is that only what others think you’re doing on those long evenings together?”

  Llumin’s eyes narrowed.  Before Nettle could quite react, the mesmer whirled, sword drawn, and slashed at her.  The necromancer’s first impulse was to laugh and declare her aim terrible, until she realized that there was a very faint line of torn skin, thinner than a fingernail, across the bridge of her nose.  Two pale green leaves fluttered from her head and landed lightly on the ground.

  “I have buried more dead than you have killed,” Llumin said quietly, her eyes like a frozen sea.  “Do not take the love I have for the Marshal and make it into a coward’s joke.”  She sheathed her sword and turned.  “I will be going with the Marshal to directly find and halt the Dragon’s main supply line, where it is corrupting its troops.  Starving it and weakening its forces will help pave the way for the first attempt at cleansing its land.  After that,” she said, and Nettle could faintly sense the hope she put into her words, “we can kill it.”


	106. Arc 4, Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The descent into Abaddon's temple doesn't go off without a hitch.

The largos stood taller than Nettle but was still slightly shorter than the Marshal's own height. Gryphon watched Nettle's eyes narrow for a fraction of a second and shook his head, already sensing how the necromancer was envisioning the best ways to attempt to dissect the pale-blue-skinned creature. Of course, that would have meant that she would have to somehow pry off that complicated-looking breathing apparatus that clamped itself almost entirely around the seadweller's face, and then attempt to crack her out of the dull silver plates that armored her. A long, pointed ear twitched from behind a curtain of white hair as the largos crossed her arms and spoke.

 

"While it is an honor to fulfill my debt to the Marshal of the Pact," she said evenly, voice echoing strangely, "I would have appreciated a forewarning as to whom I would be assigned.  Nonetheless, as he is an honorable man," she continued, sliding a cold gray gaze from him to the subject of her contempt, "I will trust that he does not intend to leave me as prey to the murderess who butchered one of my own all those years ago."

 

Nettle's smile widened excitedly.  "I'm flattered."

 

Trahearne stepped in before Sayeh could place a bronze blade between Nettle's ribs.  "Lightbringer Radwing, I do hope that you will help remind Agent Viridia that this mission cannot and will not succeed without Sayeh's guidance into the temple of Abaddon.  It is one of the few to not be corrupted, which I largely suspect is due to the transferral of his power to Kormir after the city sunk.  The largos in the area are the only ones who know any access points into the temple.  Getting inside will be highly dangerous, not just because of the traps, but likely due to the presence of the Dragon's own invaders. Go in with the Agent and Sayeh, and bring it out.  Expect resistance.  Pale Tree guide you."

 

 

"'Pale Tree guide you,'" Nettle scoffed.  She slipped her waterbreather over her face and stared balefully at the gray waters as the Order of Whispers' skiff rowed out onto the sea.  "Does he know how ridiculous he sounds when he says that?"

 

Gryphon raised a brow as he carefully fitted his own apparatus over his face.  "You're in an unusually cheery mood.  Does this have anything to do with the fact that you can't see your would-be target?" 

 

The sylvari's lip curled, but she did give a precursory glance to the sea as if to catch a glimpse of the largos swimming deep below.  "No.  This may surprise you," she said, carefully rotating her skull in her fingers, "but I don't particularly care for the open seas."

 

  "You're afraid of water?"

 

  "I'm not going to scream if someone hands me a glass of the stuff, Lord Radwing," she said flatly.  "I'm just saying that were this not a mission of extreme importance to the Pact and were I not so delightfully-encouraged by the Master of Whispers, I would much rather be on land."

 

Despite himself, the mesmer smiled.  "So, your sister is afraid of fire, and you're afraid of water."

 

  A single tooth poked from above her thin lips.  "Phrase it like that again, and I'll complain during the whole trip."

 

He settled back into the stiff wooden chair and tested a breath through his device. "You're already a good way there."

 

The helmsman and two rowers in the ship suddenly slowed their speed.  "We're here," the brown-skinned asura declared, yellow eyes glowing dully in the sickly moonlight of the fallen land.  "Best of luck to you, Lightbringer," he said, and shook the mesmer's hand with his small one.  The charr and sylvari at the oars took their turns to echo the gesture.  Nettle raised a brow as she stood and looked from one to the other two.

 

"What, no shaking of hands or well-wishes for me?" she smirked.  The helmsman and rowers squirmed, and she laughed, the sound made tinny by the aquabreather.  "I would know a falsehood once uttered," she shrugged.  "Were it not for your walking on my experiments, you would still wish me well, would you not?"

 

"Enough, Nettle," Gryphon said coolly.  The dark waves below glistened.  "We dive here."

 

 

The water was like every cage she had ever experienced.  It was cold and all-encompassing, indifferent and suffocating.  Water did not understand to reel back when kicked, and did not bleed when stabbed.  It did not scream; it only existed and smothered where it lay wild and deep and untamed. Yet the directive was there; the taste of ancient magics still glided past the metal in her mouth and to some part of Nettle's mind that itched and hungered.  Ahead, Sayeh's black-blue fins sliced through the murky sea, glowing faintly in the darkness below.

 

  "We must be cautious; it is as Trahearne said.  The Orrians have taken too much interest in this place, and the god of secrets kept his hidden well."  Her voice sounded the same below-water as above.  She held out a clawed hand.  "Wait; look ahead."

 

Nettle's stomach soured.  "Risen sea urchins.  Of all the things one could have told me to expect..."

 

"What do they even do?"  Gryphon carefully glided forward, pausing at the edge of Sayeh's warning. "They aren't exactly known for their ferocity."

 

"The Marshal has told me of many things over the years of our friendship," the largos replied coolly.  "One of which is to never underestimate the Dragon's resourcefulness in how it uses its minions."

 

Nettle sneered, brain itching for the comforting voice of her skull, now muffled and carefully wrapped in her waterproof backpack.  "I won't hesitate for some poorly-resurrected seafood," she said, and drew her spear, swimming forward.

 

 

Had she mentioned how much she hated the water? 

 

An urchin spewed a cloud of poison towards her from its star-shaped mouth.  Nettle couldn't swim out of the way fast enough and coughed on the putrid air that filtered through her breather.  She had to resist the almost-overwhelming urge to rip it off of her face and surge towards the open skies above.  Instead, she focused her rage and humiliation on the creature below and brandished her spear at it, stabbing at the soft, rotten insides before it could close itself away in its resurrected shell.  A dull buzzing -- Adam's warning -- and she darted back in time to avoid the spear of an Orrian peasant surging towards her chest.  A clicking rage like a ticking bomb chilled her thoughts; even muffled, she could sense her ethereal mentor directing her, berating her, advising her to stab and weave, dodge and snap.  She could not use her teeth here, but what was a muzzled wolf?  Still dangerous, she heard him rasp, and remember it.  She was distantly aware of Gryphon and Sayeh's presence above and around her as they battled the Orrians that were now trickling from the gate; the temple's corrupted guards and wildlife raging against them as they pushed past first one gate and then another.

 

"I will admit," the largos said as they broke past the first set of guards by one of the temple's more hidden alcoves, "you fight as well as could be expected.  Better, I would daresay."

 

"I'll take that as a compliment.  I know how much your kind prizes combat," Nettle replied as they rose past the waters and onto another raised platform.  She paused at the carved onyx obelisk that rose from the ground in front of them.  "Gryphon, while I can certainly sense strong magic lingering here, I can't sense what it wants you to do."

 

 "Thankfully, my hobbies included studying ancient Orrian," he said, stowing his staff and stepping forward.  "We have to perform some sort of ritual -- remember that last one?"

 

  "Yes, the one with the placing stones in absurd spots with those hidden pressure points.  I remember," the sylvari said sourly.  "Was that one before or after the water mines?"

 

  "After the water mines and before the Risen sharks and sea turtles," he said helpfully, squinting as he ran a finger down the purple-glowing text etched within.  "Aha, here we are.  'Look within yourself and battle the hidden demons within.  The best kept secrets are the ones within your heart.'"

 

  Nettle snorted.  "Clearly, Abbadon never required his followers to be versed in verse.  How ridiculous could it be?"

 

  Gryphon gave her an unamused stare.  "Considering the Orrian word for _heart_ has at least five definitions, two of which are dependent on context and based on my own questionable understanding, I'd say better than you'd think . The actual inscription is much deeper philosophically and grammatically, but we haven't got the time to debate prose." 

 

  Nettle could have sworn she heard the largos chuckle if she wasn't so certain the fin-back wanted to live after the mission.  "Well, then, what are we waiting for?  Who should we volunteer to trip this trap?"  She spread her arms and gave an exaggerated smile.  "Ah, wait; there's a volunteer right here, isn't that so?"

  "You've survived thus far," Gryphon said.  "I wouldn't trust an idiot to do this job."

  Her smile melted.  "I know."  She sighed and removed Adam from the clip at her side, running a thumb over the bridge of his nose.  Already she could trace the old magics behind her closed eyelids, lips pursed as she concentrated.  She opened her mouth and breathed, rolling the rotten air over her tongue as she carefully focused on the magic lingering in the air.  It was as Trahearne had said; despite the current's weakness, it was shockingly untainted.  Perhaps the fall and casting-out of the former god before the raising of Orr had somehow saved this small remnant of power, potent despite its size, from being noticed by the Dragon.  Her eyes opened, memory returning.  Well, all except for this one artifact. 

  "Stand back, please," she said.  "And do try not to laugh."

 

Sayeh's voice echoed in the stone chamber.  "I do not laugh, sylvari."

 

  "Shocking.  Gryphon, this room actually has another pedestal; I'll activate the first, but I must request that you do the second; something about the weaknesses of mind on that one?"

 

  "I thought you said you can't read ancient Orrian."

 

  "I can't. Adam just told me about that one."

 

  The largos tilted her head up at the mesmer.  "Does she always claim to speak to bones?"

 

  "Only that skull."  He shrugged.  "Keep your guards up."

 

  "They are never down, Lightbringer."

 

  Nettle ignored their presence as she paced a few steps from the first pillar, clasped her hands over each other, and bowed to it.  "We come here to reveal what is hidden and to forge a new path," she murmured.  "Let the shrouded in shadow be made known, for we are worthy, and we alone shall keep the way."

 

  For a long, prickling moment, Nettle felt nothing.  Then, a spectral image, deeper indigo than any mesmeric magic, stepped forward.  The ghostly figure's tall, elaborate headdress towered above his masked face.  As she watched, the carved leer melted into a twisted image of her own.  Well, that was new.

  "You'll never be free."  The voice came from within her head yet was loud enough to drown out even Adam's laughs.  Whatever this presence was, Nettle barely raised her weapons in time to block its strike. 

 

  She sneered.  This was supposed to be her worst demon?  She had faced this a hundred nights before.

 

  "You know you're wrong."

 

  Please.  She had faced that another hundred times.  As if it would get to her now.  She turned to Gryphon and the largos as she spun beneath another sword-strike that she blocked with her staff and snarled up at the twisted image of herself. 

 

  "Oh, don't mind me, I wouldn't appreciate any _help_ or anything," she snapped.

 

  Gryphon cupped his hands to his mouth.  "Did you actually finish reading the inscription?"

 

Nettle felt her stomach twist as the ghost flickered and bent.  She staggered forward and dropped to the ground as its blade whistled over her head.  "I don't _read_ ancient Orrian!"

 

  "You're letting this really get to you," the guard sighed.  Her own smile beamed down mockingly at her.  "But what can you expect?"

 

  Above them, the all-encompassing sea churned around the sunken temple.  Nettle snarled and lunged, jaws open wide as she snapped at the projection.  Her vision blurred at the edges; Adam's voice hissed like sand through her mind, growing fainter as the ancient magic thrummed like lighting through her veins.  Outside the magic seal, the forms of the human and the largos bled into shapeless colors.  The guard's mask stared keenly at Nettle; the voice changed, a whisper like the dredged depths murmured sibilant into her ears as her blows grew more desperate. 

 

 "Magic once taken is never truly gone," came the voice felt more than heard.  "You know what you've done, Nettle Viridia.  Where will your magic go?"  Pinpricks of darkness like spider eyes stared glittering at her.  "You thief; you take, you steal, you consume.  You know your own path, don't you?  Leech playing at curiosity, what will you become when you return to the dead?"

 

  The ghost's leering face suddenly went slack.  Nettle staggered and lunged, blade biting deep into the shade as Gryphon's sword burst through its chest.

 

  "I -- "

 

  "You didn't have it, Nettle.  Nobody should fight their demons alone."

 

  "Spare me your prose, human.  You don't care for me."

 

  The mesmer was silent; his blade twisted once more through the guardian's back before it disappeared with a sigh.  "You might be surprised."  He walked towards the other obelisk.  "If you'd taken the time to wait and listen, you would have heard me say that once you activate the spell, you're sealed in there unless somebody works really hard to find any weak spots.  Sayeh, fortunately, has a good eye for those kinds of things."

 

  Nettle stepped towards the second obelisk.  "I'll let you fight this one."  She glanced towards the largos.  "Any demons you want to face, Sayeh?"

 

  She crossed slate-blue arms.  "You may be surprised to hear that we are a secretive race.  This is your former god, human," she said, gesturing to the mesmer.  "Should this not be your honor?"

 

  His smile was thin.  "I've had people teach me how to fight the wars of the mind.  Back me up if you can, but I know what I face."

 


	107. Arc 4, Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The summit of the temple; a voice, an echo, a monster.

  Gryphon had dispatched his illusory foes with relative ease with the help of the largos and sylvari.  The group continued further, ever more steps rising from the briny depths.

    It was strange, Nettle thought, of how even under the sea there was ground that was fairly dry, and eerie how she could hear the sounds of the ocean echoing around them.  The stone walls that surrounded them reminded Nettle of a seashell under the waves; fragile, hollow, and too likely to be crushed or destroyed.  She kept her unease hidden behind her smile and inhaled again as they ascended another set of stairs towards a platform.

  "More magic here; a gateway," she explained.  "Gryphon, will you place that seal over on that indentation?  I'll get the one over here.  Sayeh, do you see that pitcher?  Tell me if there's any water in it."

  The assassin raised a brow.  "We are underwater, Agent Viridia.  Most things here are filled with the stuff."

  Nettle's smile widened.  "Yes, funny how that works.  Tell me if it's filled, if you would please."

  Gryphon gave a grunt as he slid the heavy stone seal into its place.  "Don't be difficult; we haven't got the time to waste."

 

 

  A few moments later, with the water from the pitcher poured over the seals, the final antechamber opened.  Nettle held up a hand as they stepped forward.

  "Do you sense that?"

  Sayeh drew her blades.  "I don't need to sense, sylvari; I can hear.  And we must move quickly."

 

  Gryphon cloaked them in a veil of invisibility; they quickly stepped inside to where an ancient, waterlogged chest rested between two candles in front of a cracked altar.  Nettle slipped her blade into the wood and carved it open, removing a small idol whose magic made her teeth ache as she touched it.  At that moment, the opposite side of the chamber groaned.

  "Nettle, get back," Gryphon hissed.

  Her eyes widened; she rolled barely in time to avoid the crashing fists of a towering undead as it shattered the remnants of the wooden chest.  The magic flickered away, and the three of them stood and stared, weapons drawn and stances ready, as Zhaitan's servants whirled to glare at them with baleful hunger.  The taller of the two was obviously the bodyguard, but it was the second that drew their attention and kept it.

  A hideously-bloated body lumbered towards them, its stomach bisected by a rotten mouth that carved its way around its torso.  Its bulging arms tensed as it snarled, black tongue lolling from behind sharpened teeth.

  "Thieves!  Insects!  You would steal from the Mouth of the Dragon?" it roared.  "My master will devour that trinket and then drain this world.  Give us back our food and we may spare you the agony of time."

  Sayeh's eyes flashed. 

  "You would threaten us and give us death to call us mercy.  We will cut your throat, monster, and drown you in your own blood!  You will not feast today, and your days, marked by the Tethyos houses and this Pact, are numbered."  With that, she rushed forward, and the others joined the fray.

 

  The battle was over in no more than ten tense minutes; magic was drained, bones ached from blows, and heads reeled with the poisonous words and breath of the Dragon's Mouth and its guard.  Nettle grimaced as she removed her blade from the bloated, horribly-soft flesh of the creature and wiped it first on her guard before taking a drop of its blood to taste.  The residual power made sparks dance behind her eyes.

  "It was certainly a major blow we've struck against the beast, cutting off one of its mouths," she mused.  A rotten aftertaste curled her lips.  "With one less source of food intake and more of its kind falling further inland, there's no doubt that the dragon is starting to become panicked."  She smiled.  "A lovely change."

  A series of hollow booms echoed throughout the room; a roar of fury, distant yet all-encompassing in the chamber, bellowed around them, followed by an ominous set of sharp cracks.  Sayeh looked from the corpses of the Dragon's minions to her companions.

  "We have struck a blow, yes, but the Dragon could reclaim its food if it has to sort through the rubble to find our mangled bodies.  It's bringing down the Temple.  We must escape."

 

  With Zhaitan's minions streaming towards them as they fled, Nettle wasn't certain they would make it to the rendezvous point in time; however, their efforts were less-coordinated, weaker -- and she remembered the operation that Llumin and the Marshal were leading against the dragon's minion ossuaries.  Its attentions were becoming more divided, she thought smugly, and even it wasn't all-powerful or all-knowing in this sunken land.  She lurched from the oceans and grasped onto the arms offered by the Pact's soldiers as they hoisted her and the others into the boat and sped off.

  "Did you get the artifact?" one of them looked warily at her before turning his questions towards Gryphon.  The lord leaned back and removed his waterbreather with a content sigh.

  "Yes," he panted.  "And I suspect this is but one of several major blows we will strike before we are yet finished."  A grim smile curved his lips.  "The Pact is winning, men.  We will yet see the Dragon fall."

 


	108. Arc 4, Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrie goes scouting and finds a terrible omen.

  "Don't get me wrong," the thief muttered, shouldering her pack and trudging forward, "I'm glad that the mission at the temple went well, but doesn't it seem a bit odd that it went so easily?"

  Gryphon laughed.  "Myrie, if what we just went through is your definition of 'easy', then I'd hate to see what you consider difficult."

  "Well," she spluttered, face reddening, "I didn't mean it like that.  I just meant that for an artifact of that much power, you would have thought there would be something more guarding it, right?"

  "It was a _Mouth of Zhaitan_ ," the mesmer said.  "How much more difficult would you have had us face?"

  "I'm not saying it wasn't easy; I apologize," the thief amended.  "But you have to admit; something's off."

  "Well, Myrie, if you discover it, please let us know."  The remark was genuine.  "But don't spread the word.  We need to take our victories where we can find them, and this close to Orr, losing that morale would be devastating for some of the troops."

  "I understand." 

 

  They made camp further inland, surrounded by the opalescent carvings of the sunken island that glistened like oil slick in the murky light of the setting sun.  Myrie's neck itched; sleep had been evading her for the past several days, and she couldn't shake that uneasy feeling that something was horribly wrong.  A clicking made her ears twitch, and she turned to see the black-furred, lean form of Khadr Shadowstalker emerge from her tent.  Her golden eyes narrowed.

  "I thought most mice slept at this time," she said.  "You smell ...interesting."

  "Oh, thanks, sorry that a gal can't find a decent bath in an active war-zone with enemies surrounding anything that resembles actual water instead of acid," the thief spat back.  The feline presence of the charr did not help Myrie's nerves any more than the lack of sleep.  "You going to insult me, or -- "

  "I meant that you smell uneasy, mouse," the charr growled.  "Our squad just won a victory in that cursed temple.  Why is it that you don't seem pleased by this?"

  Myrie shifted, running her hands down her arms as if chilled.  "Something's off.  The Dragon's never sent anything less than at least one or two champions of its kind when it's surrounded an artifact that garners its attention, and from what I've heard, most Mouths of Zhaitan don't go down that easily.  I think it was watching something."

  "Something?"

  "Us.  The Pact.  Maybe someone specific."

  The charr sat next to her on the ramparts; the smell of machine oil, leather, and a distinctive leonine scent carried on the briny air.  "It would make more sense to have it attempt to observe our leaders, wouldn't it?  To have it watch Trahearne, or Llumin, maybe even Lord Radwing."

  "Yeah, but..."  Myrie scratched the back of her neck.  "Still, that doesn't seem right.  Those guys would have noticed, I'd think, if something was off, especially with the first two and certainly with Gryphon."

  "The Dragon is crafty," the charr reminded her.  "It thinks like a deadly machine -- some reactions and cogs you don't see whirring until later," she said grimly.  Her tail twitched.  "You said that the squad recovered the artifact?"

  "Yes.  Trahearne's investigating it with other members of the Pact."

  "Heavily-guarded, no doubt."

  "He's not stupid," Myrie nodded.  Her eyes narrowed.  "Wait..."  She stood, leather armor snapping as she turned.  "How did the Dragon find the artifact?"  The prickling had spread to the backs of her hands.

  "It senses and consumes magic; Professor Gorr's theories seemed to prove that.  Why?"

  "Khadr," Myrie said slowly, "what have we got in our camp as of now?"

  The charr's ears flattened. "Burn me," she hissed.  "It's not in the camp; it's off-site; the Marshal _knew_ \--"

  "He suspected." 

  The two turned.  Nettle's green glow thrummed faintly in the night.  "I had voiced my own concerns to the Marshal upon our return; even Sayeh had felt something was off.  Gryphon was attempting to reassure you, Myrie; I'd appreciate the concern he shows were I in your shoes."

  "Well, you're not; I'm not a kid; I would have understood..."  Myrie grimaced, blinking.  "Gore, come on; we'd best help make sure the inspection crew _stays_ safe on their little 'let's-look-at-the-dragon-food' party.  We might have it off-site, but that doesn't mean they're in any less danger aboveground."

 

  "We should have told them."  Llumin looked up from her stack of paperwork towards the artifact that laid on the table.  "I understand not wanting to cause a panic, but..."

  "The leaders of the Orders know," Trahearne said.  He wrote down a few more measurements in a thick tome and straightened, frowning.  "The Mouth the Dragon sent to guard this artifact was indeed a weaker variant," he muttered.  "Though  the power this holds is significant, it was given up too easily.   This was a feint."

  "Well, it at least got a small idea of who we tend to send towards those kinds of things," the Commander sighed.  She rubbed her brow and looked towards the tent opening as Khimma and Klixx entered; the guardian's golemite trudged cheerfully behind them, carrying a set of heavy books.

  "We've done all the research we could on the subject, Commander," Khimma puffed, reaching up and placing half of a heavy instrument on the table.  A blue glow circled through its wiring.  "Klixx and I've successfully made something that should hopefully give us a ping on where our attackers will be coming from."

  "It is, however," Klixx grunted, setting his half next to hers, "extremely inefficient.  We wrote down our notes and have plans for newer models, but..."

  "With what we've got, we'll only be able to use this in a single shot."

  "Of course, it'll work," Klixx said quickly, stepping aside as SHU-TY deposited the various diagrams next to the apparatus.  "It'll just be highly risky."

  "Thankfully, we've reduced the risk of explosions," Khimma said proudly.  She crossed her arms.  "It's down by fifty percent!"

  Llumin had started to reach towards one part of the device.  Her hand drew back in alarm.  "Down by fifty percent from _what?"_

  Khimma cleared her throat.  "Um.  Eighty?"

  "Don't ask how we tested that," Klixx said sheepishly.  "Point being, you use this, we'll get an eye on the actual Mouth and whatever entourage is doubtless on our way." 

  Llumin took a breath.  "All right.  I suppose we can work with a thirty-percent-chance of being blown sky-high.  So, how do you assemble and work this thing?"

  The asura beamed mirror grins at her.  "Allow us to show you."

 

  Myrie's feet skiffed in the soft sand.  Occasionally she'd hit an unexpected flagstone, buried and dredged back to the surface at the island's resurrection, and nearly stumbled.  She'd had to do some serious espionage -- more than any Vigil warmaster would have liked -- but the result had paid off.  She half-turned to glance behind her.

  "You still getting a sense for that magic?" she called.

 "Adam says it's further ahead," Nettle replied.  "Do you think you could perhaps wait for your companions to catch up with you? I doubt a reinforcement of one will work as well as the whole of us."

  "Ignore her; we can't let those idiots get ambushed," Khadr snarled.  Myrie had to refrain from commenting no fewer than twice about how the charr ran on all fours; this was partially because, were it not for the runes in her armor, she had no doubt that the engineer could easily have caught up to her, and she enjoyed living while she had the chance.  "Burn them, they had to choose something by the sunken oceans, didn't they?"

  "What's the matter, charr, afraid of getting a bit wet?"

  Myrie heard a savage chuckle.  "Not as much as you."

  "How _dare_ you--!"

  "Shh!"  The thief came to an abrupt halt, feet shuffling as she skidded behind a worn stone cliff-side.  Ahead of them, Llumin's indigo head was bent over something as she emerged from a tent.  "I thought she brought more of them," she muttered.  The Marshal soon followed.

  "Oh, perhaps it was a secret date," Nettle smirked.

  "Look, can't you like anything that's nice and pure without being cynical?" the thief hissed.  "They wouldn't do that; look, the asura've emerged, too.  Giving... instructions?"

  Khadr growled.  "Mice and lettuce alike.  They're our allies, not enemies.  Let's go warn them of what they're doing instead of skulking around like a group of skelk waiting for its next meal."

  "But how will --?"

  "They're obviously doing something, mouse," the charr said.  "They're cautious but not afraid; they're looking for something.  Let's announce ourselves so we don't get shot."

  The thief blinked.  She squinted at Nettle, who smiled innocently.  "You're taking advantage of my sleep-deprived paranoia again."

  She shrugged.  "It's funny."

  "Glad to hear it," she muttered.  "Remind me to steal from you when I pass by your tent again."

  "Last time you did that, you had nightmares for a week."

  "Yeah, thanks to Adam for that. I knew it was him, by the way.  Would've returned your creepy chemistry set sooner if I'd have known what you used it for," she shuddered.  She stepped out from behind the rocks, arms raised.  "Hey, Llumin!  Marshal!"

  The sylvari's heads whipped towards them.  Khimma and Klixx's jaws dropped.  The crew made their way towards the camp.

  "What are you doing?"  Khimma hissed, jumping forward and yanking the thief's arm down to clap a small hand over her mouth.

  Myrie's brows furrowed.  "Rescuing you from your own silliness."  She looked from one to the other before resting her gaze on Llumin.  "At least, that's what I thought...?"

  "We made this a smaller group so that we'd draw in less attention when we try to get the Dragon's notice," Klixx groaned, running his hands down his face.  "And of course you brought the living dowsing rod.  That'll complicate things."

  "I am _not_ a dowsing -- What's Llumin doing?"

  Klixx crossed his arms.  "The Commander's using her latest invention to scan for massive power surges in nearby dragon minion forces.  We're hoping to draw in whatever was watching you."

  Nettle's lip curled.  "I was with an assassin and Lord Radwing himself.  If we'd have been watched by something as powerful as you seem to think, we would have noticed."

  "Mm-hm."  Khimma raised a skeptical brow.   "And I'm sure you were completely clearheaded with that idol nearby, right?  Not like you were thinking of using it somehow to extract its magics?"

  Myrie looked back towards the necromancer.  "Are you _serious_." 

  "It is a fascinating artifact!  If my senses were dulled, it was due to the the interference from the temple, the idol, and the Dragon's own forces!"

  "Well, you thankfully run in a Pact with someone who's got more than just cabbage in his head," Klixx said, walking out of the necromancer's stabbing range.  "While we appreciate you trying to warn us from being a beacon, that is, unfortunately, exactly what we are trying to be."

  "Wait, let me get this straight -- you think that Gryphon's squad really went through a feint, too?"

  Trahearne walked back towards them and recovered quickly from his surprise at their presence.  "Yes, unfortunately," he said after being brought quickly up to speed.  "Llumin and I both agree based on our prior research that something -- whether it was a large force or a more powerful minion -- should have been present.  It may have been hoping for Nettle's hunger to overpower her other senses."

  "Which it did," Khimma said, quickly stepping alongside Klixx to safety.

  "And now we're trying to find out what was watching you while you escaped."

  "We would have sensed something!"  The pale sylvari's lips peeled back in a snarl.  "If we were followed, we would have known!"

  "You weren't followed."  Llumin had returned her focus to the device.  A high-pitched whine was coming from it.  She grimaced and turned a dial on the side with a few clicks.  "You were observed."  She glanced towards Khimma, who nodded.  Llumin pressed a button, dropped the device, and rolled back as Khimma quickly shielded it with a thick, shimmering wall of guardian magic.  There was a muffled explosion from within as the device self-destructed, forcing the shield to flicker out of existence.  The group coughed as a cloud of burnt-metal smoke wafted away on the breeze.

  "Did you see anything before it blew up?" Klixx asked hopefully, uncovering his ears.  Llumin's face was grim.

  "Yes.  Trahearne," she said, turning to the Marshal, "before it blew up, I saw something that looked like one of your illustrations.  A towering undead surrounded by others heading this way."

 "Which one?"  Already he had strode back to the tent; Caladbolg glowed gold as the sun began its descent. 

  The Commander took a breath.  "An Eye.  We'd best prepare; our friends' arrival may have been more fortunate than we have realized."


	109. Arc 4, Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selana's intuition carries her and others to action.

  Whatever was happening, the signals weren't subtle.  Not, at least, to the eye of one who had been trained to watch for them.  Selana Firestone glanced up at the flapping of wings; her white raven, a heritage breed, had returned to her tent with a small scroll protruding from the casing on his leg and perched easily on the silver stand she had set up for it.  She crooked her finger and the large bird landed heavily on it.  Used to her presence, the creature was at ease, but stared expectantly at her from the corner of its piercing blue eyes as it preened a wing.  The elementalist gave a small smile and offered the bird a poultry heart before she removed its message.  Upon reading the text, her smile thinned, the flaming stone that hovered in front of her forehead brightening with concentration.  The scout's initial report had been enough to cause suspicion at the first hint her eyes had given, and now, with the second at hand, she could see that something much larger than a simple absent study was occurring.

  "Relay the information in this message to Lord Radwing," she said evenly.  "Tell him to gather a small force and meet at the Blighted Battlefield.  His eyes only.  Do not pass on this information, Agent," she said, handing off the small scroll to a waiting messenger. 

  "Ma'am?"  He blinked owlishly at her, looking from the message to her face.  To his credit, she thought, it was late, but she couldn't risk anything, especially at this hour.

  "Do not question your orders, soldier."  She drew her staff and focused as the winds bent behind her.  "This is a matter of life and death; we may strike a blow against the Dragon itself if we are careful."

 

  They took the long route; this was questioned quietly by more than one member of the squad she and the others had rallied, and with so many in leadership now curiously absent, she sympathized easily with their concern. 

  "Must be just another scouting mission, or a patrol drill," one of them said hopefully.  A gold-furred charr shook her head, green eyes narrowing and nostrils flared as she raised her muzzle to the sky.

  "No; this is something different.  There's an old scent in the air; can you tell?"

  "I'm human, Abernathia, not charr.  Haven't got your senses."

  "Soldiers, advance silent," Selana ordered.  Her voice carried, spreading subtly by Gryphon's magic.  "Move on my signal."

  There were silent affirmations spread; one half of the small force split off.  Sylfia marched ahead of one squad, moving with deceptive silence. 

  "Oi hope you ain't draggin' us out here for your own paranoia, Lightbringer," the warrior muttered as she strode alongside her.  "Lot's of good men thinkin' you're going behind the Marshal's back with this."

  "Are you of their number, Warmaster?" 

  The sylvari's lip curled.  "No.  Oi jus' ain't sure what the Marshal's missin' that we're bringin' a strike force out 'ere for."

  The elementalist sighed and frowned, looking across the battlefield.  She could see Gryphon's forces flicker once as his cloaking magics moved over the archers.  "Considering the forces that've gone missing," she said quietly, "it's something big.  The Marshal and Commander brought Khimma and Klixx to see if they could forge some sort of undead tracking device; we could tell that much from what we've intercepted.  Myrie Ward soon followed, along with Nettle and Khadr Shadowstalker, one of our lead engineers.  They had previously received no orders to do so from either of their commanding officers, so we've reason to suspect that the necromancer was being followed after taking another hint towards another source of magic.  Were they unwanted, their suspicions unfounded, they would have been sent back quickly.  However, if the Marshal and Commander discovered that they may need more than just the four of them..."

  Sylfia swore a black oath.  "They'll need more than their seven if they've got a bloody big rot after them, regardless of Nettle's bloodthirstiness or anyone else's expertise."

  "Agreed. Our advantage lies in the fact that neither our allies nor adversaries suspect us.  Move carefully; Gryphon will direct his troops around one side of the passage, and you can direct yours to the other.  If need be, he'll teleport his side down more immediately.  I need you to rain arrows with your troops if our allies will need better reinforcements."

  The warrior grinned, broken nose flashing once as lightning cracked through the sky.  "You got it, fleshy.  We'll head to the overcrop and await your orders -- or general chaos."  She slung her bow over her shoulders and marched to her troop, signalling quickly and with a sharp birdwhistle.  "Whichever comes first."


End file.
